


The Windhovers:  Classified (Avengers 'verse)

by sarcasticchick



Series: The Windhovers [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Canon, BAMF Phil Coulson, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Drama, M/M, Post-Movie(s), Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticchick/pseuds/sarcasticchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.”  - T.S. Eliot</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hola, greetings, and friendly waves towards the new fandom. 
> 
> So I am reviving "The Windhover" series because I found new inspiration, but not in the fandom 'verse that I had dabbled in before. It's a concept I've been playing with for publication purposes on an original novel level, I'm just using the characters in the 'verse to work out the world in my head. And well, fix-it. On multiple levels. 
> 
> Notes (because they're probably necessary): 
> 
> 1\. If you are new to the series: you do not need to have read the prior parts of the series in order to follow this one, nor do you need to know anything about Torchwood/Doctor Who as TW/DW themselves do not make an appearance. I will address all the who's and what's behind the concept, as well as the one character crossing over for cameo. The prologue is intentionally a tease. However, if you want to read an 'origins' type story for this world, feel free to read the previous parts. 
> 
> 2\. If you are old to the series: you will see the return of a character, but more cameo in form. I do, however, basically plan to Easter Egg an idea of what happened to that character, and he will have some fix-it aspects as well. The whole TW thing still annoys me, so I will probably not be writing anything more to that particular fandom 'verse.
> 
> 3\. Full canon compliance through the Avengers movie, I am simply working my 'world' into the existing canon. No spoilers for IM3 or Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. or any unreleased movies, however where the story is plotted to end will conceivably dovetail into Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. I'm sure I'll be joss'd for the 'how???', but it'd be awesome if I had a mainline into the brain of Joss Whedon. 
> 
> 4\. Concrit welcome. If you have a question, ask. I reserve the right to shout SPOILERS! if something may be explained later on. I'll stay active in the comments for this fic and honestly it's good to know where I'm failing in plot in a larger 'I want to publish this world someday' sense. 
> 
> 5\. Posting schedule: I plan on a chapter every Tuesday, or every second week if some unforeseen thing happens. I've currently got about 25 pages of plot/scenes scribbled out and/or storyboarded/general concepts/themes, so it's probably going to be a decent-sized fic with a number of chapters. I have the end plotted, so this is a finite story. 
> 
> Enough babble, thanks for bearing with me, now on with the fic!

**********

He'd be lying if he said that waking up had been easy. 

Consciousness itself was remarkably simple, merely crossing from the notion of blank absence to _everything_. From the dried and rotting vegetation lumps creating the vague sensation of resting atop a bed of bones to the humid air coating his lungs with a saturated, earthy tar he'd forgotten over the years despite his travels - he knew. 

This was _home_.

He knew without looking, but opened his eyes anyway to the expanse of blue sky weaving wisps of cirrus cloud into the heavens like hair drifting from the horizon. Everywhere he looked it was blue; blue the color of ice in an operative's eyes melting into the color of Tesseracts and arc reactors, apple pie and the American dream until the blue was so warm it baked the ground, cracking the clayed topsoil into rivets and fault lines. 

Home.

An ache settled deep within his bones, rattling to the tune of the crickets scratching their call. He hadn't been here for years, decades even. Not truly; not in the ways that mattered. Moments of passing for an op, flyovers and fuel-ups were all with purpose, all with direction and cause. This, this return home to his birthplace was unplanned and unwanted. 

This was failure. 

It was visceral, the failure, spreading its fingers through his insides until his gut writhed and squished into nothing what little sense of victory he possessed. Who was he fooling - there was no victory, not even the slight semblance of triumph in burning light and the flash of a tumbling god. Maybe it wasn't failure, maybe it was shame. Shame and defeat and so much _wrong_ that it clouded his eyes until all he was felt like it was bleeding into the decaying stalks jabbing his back and head. 

He wasn't used to this. He wasn't created for this. 

He wasn't supposed to _be_ this.

His heels dug into the ground, splintering what the farmer had yet to till as he tried to gather the strength to accept what his mind refused to fully acknowledge. The action didn't make him feel better, just added a fresh wave of sharp rot tinged with a vague hint of the ammonia used for fertilization. Defeat and shame. An end to everything he had built for over thirty years. Not just an end but the death of everything he had become. Who he was. Or rather, who he believed himself to be.

It wasn't supposed to end like this. 

Closing his eyes failed to block out the details, just the blue which reminded him far too much of the Captain he had idolized and the ones left behind. Flashes of faces tickled the edges of that mental line he shied from; some he'd killed, some he'd loved or liked or merely tolerated. Faces of that life now past; arrows and guns and towers of green. Ruthlessly, he shoved those images away but they filtered back to taunt him until his fists beat a soundless protest in the dead remains of last year's harvest. 

It wasn't fucking _fair_.

Grudgingly, he stood, shaking his limbs to rid himself of the crawling sensation teasing his body into thinking the wind danced upon his skin. Not just faces - things he'd seen and places he'd visited were all there. Cities he'd protected, criminals and international terrorists he’d apprehended, people and places and everything that fed that life and gave it purpose. That was his life, his secret life amidst a covert government agency battling the evil and threats to the Earth. That's what he was meant to be. Not this hapless wreck standing alone in the middle of a corn field, cursing a god that wasn't his. 

He averted his gaze downward, the weight of Captain-America-blue resting heavy on his head until it _hurt_ with disappointment while the battles raged far to the east and so far out of his reach. Wasn't even the distance - the distance meant nothing - but the circumstances were everything and his friends would fight and die in the wars he could no longer join, not for some time. His fingers curled, marks the shade of midnight scrolling over and around his knuckles as his nails cratered his palms. It was getting harder to breathe while he stared at his hands and the finely etched lines, twisting up the back of his hands to creep under his jacket's cuff. 

He couldn't go back. It wasn't their way. 

They are secrets - secrets and whispers and the forgotten. 

His hands started to shake, slight tremors making the lines blur and he refused to acknowledge it was for any reason other than exhaustion. Fucking _Loki_. He wanted to go back, he wanted to _fight_ and take that ridiculously overdressed god by the throat and put a bullet in the arrogant bastard's brain. He could do it. Wanted to do it. _Needed_ to do it, for Clint and for what threatened the relative peace of New York and Earth. If he were to seek Loki now, that is how it would end and he knew it for nothing else but revenge. No command or direction, no orders from superiors, no mercy. Simply put, an eye for an eye. Loki took Clint's mind then speared him through with a goddamned scepter, stealing the life he had so carefully built. He would take Loki, destroy his mind and throw him atop a spike at the proverbial front gate, a warning to any who dared threaten Earth and his protected again. 

But that wasn't what he was. That wasn't who they were. Justice, not vengeance. Protect, not murder for self-interest. 

Rolling his shoulders, he cracked his neck, flexing all the muscles unused and all but forgotten over the years, awoken thanks to that damned god. And the alien invasion force - the Chitauri - how long before they tore across the continent in search of glory and riches with Loki at the lead? He palmed his chest, rubbing the phantom pain away. Had it been days? Weeks? Hours? Had S.H.I.E.L.D. fallen? The Avengers Initiative, had they managed to pull it together? Was Clint ... Natasha -

No. _No_. 

He had to stop thinking about things he could not change and could no longer join. The Plain's wind picked up around him, breeze ruffling through his hair and feathers, and humming the old song of the prairie. Giving into the urge, he _stretched_ , wings unfurling with a crack of displaced air. God, it felt good. Reveling in the freedom while mourning what was lost, he guiltily flexed and watched the tips come into view first, followed by wings a raven's black, glinting in undertones of violet and blue. He'd forgotten - Christ how he'd _forgotten_ \- and it was simultaneously a glorious and devastating feeling, the sense of connection always lurking but never realized, rooted deep in the lands he walked. Ever the reason he lived and ever the reason he could never return; always hidden, always safe and quietly guarding. For the moment, however, in this single moment he was everything. He was undivided. 

He was Windhover.

And Phil Coulson was dead. 

Frustrated rage and helplessness quickly swelled at those thoughts, scattering everything else aside. 

"Fuck!" He shouted to the heavens, to the birds who startled at the unexplained sound and to the insects that buzzed in the Nebraska sun. He shouted it again, knowing no one beside himself listened and for one of the few times in the past thirty years he felt no reason to moderate his expressions. The word curled in his throat and exploded into the same damned blue sky which shaded from operative iced blue eyes to Captain America blue, cursing it and the reminder as much as he was the situation. His wings thrummed an agitated beat, updrafts of wind strewing dust and dirt into a cloud and he kicked the ground for all the good it did him or his shoes. But the violence did dislodge a corn stalk which he quickly picked up and threw, adding an additional shout to the trailing spray of decaying plant.

“Damn it,” he finished with a huff, more as an afterthought than exclamation. Chest heaving from the burst of action and temper, he rested his hands on his hips and tried to forget every reason he was there in the field, and every reason which would draw him back. Resolutely, he distracted himself with a survey of the barren fields, knowing in a matter of weeks they'd be tilled and the corn once again planted. He stood where a bur oak tree once grew, battered and ancient on the edge of a windbreak. A tornado struck the tree down nearly a decade ago, but he had returned to the same spot, this home which generations stretching back to the pioneers bred survival into the basic genetic code. 

He'd watched his parents in these fields, scaling the old tree to pretend he was invisible from their watchful eyes. As a child, he never knew when they were so broke the pigs ate better than they. Or, which was as equally as likely, when there was surplus enough that they could store away for the following year because they’d never said a word to him, never let on how much of a struggle it was sometimes, farming on this land. 

This land spoke promises of legacy and loss, of rebirth, chaos and order. 

Phil Coulson was dead. 

But here he stood, wings outstretched and the archaic language of the Windhover written on his skin. Here he stood connected with the land that had borne him, raised him and eventually became so imbued in his sense of self that upon his death he returned to the one place he called _home_. Even after his parents died, he still ensured the family home was kept up, and the fields planted and harvested every year by sharecroppers. S.H.I.E.L.D. had no knowledge of this place - it had existed prior to the existence of Phil Coulson and for all his old bosses liked to pretend they were omniscient, he still had some secrets. 

Many, truth be told. 

But first and foremost, the secret that is never to be revealed; a survival instinct as deeply imbued as living life in the Great Plains where the four seasons guided the year but chaos challenged that order. This left everyone who grew up in the region planners for both the expected and the unexpected, and when even that was undone by drought or tornado or hail or a bad coach for the football team, then one just needed to accept, rebuild and move on to plan for the next.

He was Windhover.

And Phil Coulson was dead. 

With a sigh born of defeated determination and implying more composure than he felt, he straightened his tie, cinching that knot till it once again sat square with his dress shirt and suit jacket. He scowled as he felt the ragged edges of the hole in his shirt, lip curling slightly with distaste as he looked down and saw the mess of dried blood; there was just no hope of saving the shirt. He _liked_ that shirt. And it wasn't like his wardrobe at the old family home held anything within the past three decades worth of fashion. Unexpected problems caused by a Loki-sized tornado, but he would regroup and rebuild a new life. The family home was a half mile to the north, seated twenty miles to the southeast of Lincoln. Large enough to start over, small enough that S.H.I.E.L.D. lacked even a basic field office, and easy enough to disappear. 

And with the thought of disappearing, he mentally touched the tether connecting him to the beyond, the existence of the Windhover in the void where space and time were concepts, not rules or laws. Touched and the markings vanished; touched and he felt both lighter and less, the wind on his back evidence he was once again wrapped in _human_ , where wings tethering him to another place were simply flights of fantasy. Also, it was evidence that his shirt and jacket back had been equally damaged as the front - perhaps even worse given the brief appearance of his wings - but he was trying not to be bitter and to move on from the scepter and from the bastard who had destroyed everything. 

He was trying. 

But the idea was still so hard to release, proven by his appearance in the field. Phil Coulson was dead. But _Phil_ still lived. And as long as the idea of Phil existed, he would continue. 

Phil was okay with that. 

Rather, he would have to be. He'd done it before and would do it again. He just wasn't sure if what 'again' was would matter as much as 'Phil Coulson' had, as connected as he had been in the ranks of men and women aboard the agency which had global reach and nearly unlimited resources - human and monetary - to accomplish his goals. 

Waking up wasn't easy. 

Waking up in defeat was even more difficult. 

Waking up in defeat and trying to improve upon 'Phil Coulson' was just about damned impossible. 

But he'd do it. That's who he was; that's what he was. And so Phil turned towards the old family homestead, straightened the lines of his ruined suit jacket and began to walk.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So of course, I start writing/posting, and work is all 'nope, you're going to work two weeks in a row!' 
> 
> Work + brain = fail
> 
> However, 3 day weekend this week so expect a new chapter next week. 
> 
> Basing timeline off Avenger movie release date.

***

[05:37:29] * Now talking in #featheredfriends *  
[05:37:29] * Topic is 'Giant Space Worms Take Manhattan, News at 9. Sponsored by: The Spice! A product brought to you by the Fremen | Coffee brew of the week: PT's Coffee - Thunder Road Blend | Grammar is not an option!'  
[05:37:29] * Set by KingOfCoffee on Sun Jun 3 13:11:48  
[05:38:14] <KingOfCoffee> Where the hell have you been?  
[05:38:39] <KingOfCoffee> It's been weeks since I watched a bunch of aliens try to obliterate NYC. So that Captain America boy of yours -- he has a way with a shield.  
[05:40:24] <PaperworkNinja> Sorry for the delay - never made it to the battle. I was killed by a god with father issues.  
[05:40:29] <KingOfCoffee> Wait, what?  
[05:42:54] <KingOfCoffee> Fuck our lives. Are you safe?

***

"Phil, so nice to see you again."

Phil politely extended his hand to Deena Church, Vice President of Human Resources and with whom he'd interviewed over the past couple weeks. "Likewise, Deena." What he really wanted to do was shove a nail through his head at the company's insistence of casual relations within the company. Everyone went by their first names at _GeneScape_ , even the Chief Executive Officer, and to Phil's recollection, he hadn't referred to someone by their first name in a professional situation for at least thirty years except the rare instance with Natasha when it was _personal_ within that setting. Clint was never even an option - that toed a line that once crossed, well, that thought was best left alone. 

He refrained from any action with great effort, reminding himself that this was like an Op - only with no target and no endgame -and made idle chitchat with _Deena_ while they finished his paperwork. Deena had three kids, all born and raised in Nebraska. One had joined the football team as a walk-on and Phil could almost taste the pride as she went on in great detail about the time when she and her husband, Bill, had attended a game that her son had started in. Phil made a mental note to start reviewing stats and game highlights from the previous seasons, not that he planned on continuing conversations with Deena, however if there was a conversation piece that one could use on anyone in the state of Nebraska, it was Cornhusker football. 

In relatively little time, Phil knew enough about Deena to write a full S.H.I.E.L.D. threat report, had cataloged the various tools which could be used as weapons in the room, and knew all exits including the air ducts (though unreliable for transporting a person, no matter what the movies and television said), windows, doors, and ceiling paneling (dropped ceilings made for excellent escape opportunities if only to get out of the room itself). He also executed a number of action-consequence based scenarios in his head with the appropriate outcomes mapped out in letter format, starting with plan A and ending with plan Q (Deena is actually Loki in disguise and he stabs him/her through the eye with a pen. It's his favorite of the plans) and a success ratio to cost formulated for each. 

This is what he does. Or what he _did_. Life was a chess game in human form, where it took place on one of those ridiculous 3-D chess boards from Star Trek and the pieces moved of their own volition. 

"And there we go." Deena said with the cheer of someone in the professional congeniality business, and gathered the papers into a manila folder as soon as Phil set the pen down. It was such a shift in tone from where his mind had traveled it was almost physically painful to alter that course, and only years of training prevented the twitch of his brow and grimace in response. 

Glancing down at the sheaf of paper stuck in that folder, he considered his actions. He had signed his name near one hundred times on an inch of non-disclosure agreements, non-compete forms, HIPAA privacy documents, and lastly pay and benefits packages. He'd say it was a bit on the ridiculous side, however he had worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. and that paperwork required signatures in triplicate. This? This had been easy. 

This was plan A outcome. It surely could not be this easy. Although it did not involve Barton or Stark, so of course the planned action had resulted in plan A's fulfillment.

And better yet, the security for the company was all in-house with closed circuit security cameras feeding into a server with no internet access due to the private information. There were no public photos on the company's website and as Administrative Assistant to the Vice President of Sales and Acquisitions, he would never be required to travel outside of Lincoln, which in and of itself was a city with few security and traffic cameras yet still large enough to blend in. It was the perfect gig, really, for someone trying to disappear. Even if the role itself was a bit ... diminished ... after his prior life, both in general activity level and firearms competency as well as seniority and position; it was a job. A job which started him _somewhere_. And a company which did genetic mapping and research - from what he knew from world politics, threat and interest, this was not a bad place to start to begin again.

"Congratulations, Phil, and let me be the first to welcome you to the _GeneScape_ family." 

Looking down at his badge for Phil Johnson, Phil saw nothing of Phil Coulson in the security ID photo, which was the intent, anyway. This Phil appeared open, relaxed and approachable. Phil Johnson wore heavy-framed glasses (lenses just simple glass, but no one was telling), pants off the rack and a casual dress shirt with no jacket. Phil Johnson did not know how to kill a man with a paperclip, had not witnessed genocide and had no clue about international politics outside of what was fed to him by the media, plus owned a relatively empty closet until his first paycheck. 

Phil Johnson did not know Barton or Stark, nor was he even in the same playground as any of the Avengers Initiative. He would not find this role offensive nor Deena Church any form of threat. He did not inspire Junior Agents to stories and Chuck Norris anecdotes, or fear and pant wetting when dressed-down for lapses in judgement. 

Admonishing himself for even the briefest moment of character lapse, Phil shook off Coulson and Phil Johnson smiled warmly at Deena. "It's a pleasure to join _GeneScape_. I look forward to beginning my career in such a great work culture."

***

[05:48:32] * KingOfCoffee rofls.  
[05:48:47] <KingOfCoffee> That's it? You're going in as Clark Kent. Yes, your safety is ensured.  
[05:48:56] <PaperworkNinja> Fine. I'll grow a beard.  
[05:49:08] <PaperworkNinja> Might I remind you, all you did was grow your hair out.  
[05:50:23] <KingOfCoffee> I went off the bloody grid.  
[05:50:42] <PaperworkNinja> So did I. I'm in Nebraska.

***

"What'll you have, hon?"

Phil reluctantly tore himself away from the TV, stealing one last glance of heroes and villains before focusing his attention on the bartender. A snap response was on the tip of his tongue as he turned, whether it be for the interruption or the pet name, but the words just ghosted away as quickly as they'd formed. It wasn't like he hadn't watched the video clip currently playing on the news more times than he cared to admit, and insulting the lady of the house in a town with only a single bar would be detrimental to his continued existence. 

Just treat it like a mission, he'd decided late the night before. Things could be worse. 

Things _had_ been worse. 

He gave an honest smile in apology instead, feeling the lines which he'd forgotten existed crinkle the skin around his eyes. "Wheat with lemon, please," Phil requested, resting his forearms on the bar top as he surveyed the place. It was just the kind of bar that existed in the small towns of the movies, complete with neon, generic 'beer!' signs, scarlet and cream football memorabilia cluttering every inch and an old, comforting feel of belonging that the movies could never duplicate. The bar top was battered and aged, a polished sheen from decades of bar cloths wiping it down either by the bored bartender or to mop a spill making it glow in the yellowed lighting. A number of equally abused but well-tended stools lined the bar, before the room opened into low-top tables and rickety chairs that had probably been around since the day the bar opened. 

Here and there were signs of improvements, not a new table by any means but one could see the gleam of newer wood in the chair ribs at one table, a slat replaced on the tabletop to the far right, a wedge of wood under one of the table legs to correct a wobble. TVs sat in the corners and above the bar, not the shiny, enormous flat screens in the sports bars he'd visited on occasion, but rather old tube tvs, giant only for their shape and weight. They were all tuned to the news, where non-stop coverage of New York City and aliens had run since the battle. 

Not that he had any doubt - if it was football season instead of spring, even an alien versus superhero battle would not have won precedence. 

Overall, Phil found himself liking the place, tucked away in Syracuse, Nebraska, just a few miles down the road from the his safe house-slash-home. It was quiet, relaxed and unassuming, a scatter of patrons in their usual seats discussing the success of calving season this year, the drought and how it might impact the crops, and the boys in town who were off on tour in Afghanistan. As well, _The Third Wheel_ had a few things he could appreciate - easily accessible exits to the front and rear of the building, and a shotgun under the bar which he'd spotted upon entering. 

He guessed he was correct in assuming everyone in the place knew how to use it. 

A tall pint glass appeared in front of him, filled with a cloudy honey-yellow of unfiltered wheat beer and a wedge of lemon resting on the lip. The bartender turned on the faucet under the sink, busying herself with washing the dirty glasses while he prepared his drink, squeezing the lemon and dropping it in with a 'plunk'. "Haven't seen you around before, you new to town?" she asked casually, placing a glass with care on the kitchen towel beside him, her raspy voice carrying thirty-odd years of cigarettes and booze. 

"Got in a few days ago," Phil provided, knowing the information would probably be circulated around town by breakfast tomorrow and the less precise the information the better, especially given the manner in which he arrived. He refused to even think about it for the most part, having attempted to deal with it in the quiet of the empty home, mourning the loss of the life he could no longer return to. Phil held little doubt that the first few days after awakening in the middle of a corn field were the most pathetic in recent decades. But as almost everyone he knew thought he was dead, there was no one around to mock him. So he wallowed. Like a _ninja_. Then kicked his own ass and ventured into town, to the little bar named _The Third Wheel_ where he now found himself watching _his_ team take out the Chitauri on the television. "The name's Phil." 

"Marcy. My husband, Tom, and I own this place." Another glass on the counter, another pause as she ducked her head to wash the next. Phil glanced up at the news, seeing another shot of Thor and the Hulk fighting together to take down one of the Leviathans, as they were being called. "You the one who moved into the old Jacobson place?" 

Scratch that thought. She wasn't just cleaning, he was being questioned by one of the town's sentries. The thought amused him, even more so the image of her standing in a S.H.I.E.L.D. interrogation room clad in timeless Levis and faded chambray shirt covering a red tee, taking on the worst of international criminals with bottle-brunette hair and a disarming grin. "Word travels fast." 

"Most exciting thing to happen in Syracuse since the tornado in '05." Marcy's tone was dry, but Phil could hear the response for what it was - a laden question and warning given to outsiders who were stepping into protected territory. Not that there were guards or watchers or even a police force like could be recognized in larger towns. But the townsfolk watched out for each other, just like any small town, and Phil's arrival was one to be met with curiosity at the very least. 

"2004," Phil corrected, tipping his glass in slight acknowledgment of the test. Not one that was malicious, just information gathering. He could respect that. "That twister did some damage to the property. Took out a tree I remember climbing." 

"Well I'll be, a Jacobson has returned to his roots." Marcy's smile was genuine this time, drying her hands on a spare towel before extending it. "Welcome back to the good life, Phil." 

"Mom was a Jacobson but married a Johnson," Phil stretched the truth a bit, but there had been a horde of Jacobsons in the area for a while, and he had the paperwork to back a false line, so it wasn't entirely unfeasible to have a female in the Jacobson family marry and change her name. Keeping Jacobson would just create too many issues. "I inherited the place and decided to come back. It's good to be home." Phil shook her hand, not missing the way the conversation stilled around the bar. Not without reason, the Jacobsons were an old family name around these parts, the remaining estate covering a twenty acre lot with a large, two-story Victorian style home resting in the middle of it. The place was originally built in 1900, shortly after the town had been incorporated, and that wasn't to say the Jacobsons hadn't been around prior. 

The Jacobson name had history. Which given how much he had avoided history with S.H.I.E.L.D. - as typically history and a recognizable face was a fast way to get one dead - history here was moderately amusing to fall back on. 

Marcy glanced up at the screen, not missing a beat as her hand briefly tightened around his in a grip of which Thor would be jealous. "Bad business happening on the coast. Sure you're not bringing any of that with you? We're a quiet sort here, keep to ourselves." 

From awareness developed and finely tuned in enemy territories, war zones and just downright unfriendly places, Phil knew the others had not only stopped talking, but had ceased drinking as well. He had mapped the exits, but _this_ is what he had been counting on after choosing to remain here. Living here, maybe thirty minutes from Lincoln where he could find a decent job to start over, he knew his identity would be well-kept. 

Even as Phil Johnson. 

People around these parts, there might be petty bickering and neighborly fights about a tree crossing over into the other's property, but not a soul would chat with the feds willingly. Area politicians? Everyone around here either knew or was related to an area politician in some way. But nothing would get them to clam up faster than the federal government coming to patronize the locals or people from the coasts who considered Nebraska a mere flyover state and unworthy of their time. 

No, Nebraska was the perfect place to disappear. Playing up the old family name also had its perks.

Nebraska was _safe_. 

Plus, it was home. 

"Just curious about these aliens, is all," Phil assured, honestly open about the curiosity as, well, he had missed that part of the battle. "No TV at my place yet, so it's the first time I've seen them." 

Marcy released his hand with a nod, apparently his answer having satisfied her for the time. "Another beer? This one's on me." 

Phil relaxed as he settled back on his stool, listening as conversation resumed around him, this time picking up about the aliens and New York City and some rather entertaining conspiracy theories which had been running the gamut of gossip lately. 

This was good. 

Or so he kept telling himself.

***

[05:51:58] <KingOfCoffee> Give it a little time. You spent three decades as someone else.  
[05:52:31] <KingOfCoffee> If it doesn't work out, you can pack up in a couple months and start over.  
[05:53:07] <PaperworkNinja> If you are quoting from a book of platitudes for the recently departed, you will return minus a testicle.  
[05:53:21] <KingOfCoffee> Promises, promises.  
[05:53:39] <PaperworkNinja> Don't you miss your old life?  
[05:55:52] <KingOfCoffee> Every day.

***

The first thing Phil did after he had sought out the old homestead was to turn on the radio, spinning the dial through crackly static until he found a station broadcasting the news. He listened while he paced, taking in the reported and the unsaid, trying to build the picture of the battle in his mind until he had access to resources which would actually give the visuals he needed. He heard what was said of the heroes who fought, of the casualties and destruction, of the efforts on the day following to start the rebuilding.

He listened while the world reacted to the knowledge of aliens. Among some, there was chaos; a fear and terror that resounded deep in the marrow until even knowing what he did, having seen what he'd seen and understanding full well _what he was_ , Phil empathized with humankind trying to rationalize and place into tiny compartments every notion of what was and what _is_. In others, there was a sense of thrall, of a justification or acknowledgement that what had been assumed by the smartest minds but never proven was reality. There were protests and celebrations, prayer services and parties, politicians scrambling to make themselves pertinent and celebrities their photo ops. Everyone responded differently, however it wasn't everyone that he was interested in hearing. 

And finally, a press event. 

The strong voice carried over the tiny speakers, filling the empty home with an impassioned statement of resolve, of responsibility and change and so much damned _national icon_ that Phil was certain the stars and stripes were not just his imagination but they were actually painting the living room walls. His childhood hero spoke of hope, of unity and humanity emerging victorious.

Captain America spoke words Phil knew were not printed on indexed cue cards and of which S.H.I.E.L.D. had no part in creating. There was no way their speech writers were this good. No, this was all Steve Rogers, all the man and legend Phil had plastered to his walls as a child and stood in protective watch while the man slept his ice-induced sleep. 

That voice - the one reaching into the hearts of those who listened and stoked the flames of willingness to help each other - that voice then broke, cracking so loud Phil thought at first the station's signal had faltered. Or the power had gone out. But that same voice continued, speaking of the fallen. Civilians and military, so many had sacrificed their lives to protect and service during the alien incursion, others had been the innocent trapped unaware in some dastardly plot. And one their own, maybe not one of the _Avengers_ as the public now knew them but honorary - 

\- and Phil couldn't say for certain what Steve said after that. Phil knew. He _knew_ and the powerful rage that struck blinded him for a moment, spinning his mind until all that existed was the instinct to hunt that fucking god who stole the life of his asset, his charge and responsibility, _his_ fucking friend and it was so much more than that if Phil was to be truthful. Shooting the bastard with tech of unknown power was not nearly enough. Whatever happened as a result of the battle was not nearly enough. Phil had means, he could _make_ it enough. 

If only to hide the devastating guilt he felt for his failure. 

"- Black Widow and Hawkeye. While we cannot promise that such an event will never again touch our shores or our planet, we can promise that we will fight until our last breath to protect this world. It's not the only one out there, but it's the only one we've got. Thank you." 

Phil stared blankly at the wall, dumbfounded. So Barton lived? Barton fought with ... but who ...? 

The announcer broke in, reviewing Red Cross information and donation websites, including the one Tony Stark and Pepper Potts had created along with the Maria Stark Foundation, simpy named but the rumors and speculations ran rampant on the blogs and gossip sites implying everything from a Stark sibling to some child of the good Captain's. 

"The Manhattan Relief Fund" it was called, in memory of the Agent.

He couldn't decide between laughing and mocking Stark for the sentimentality or being utterly horrified. 

Phil was an asshole. That much held true no matter how he vacillated between responses. He was an asshole who had died, come back and not returned while people he once knew set up _benefit funds_.

***

[06:15:09] <PaperworkNinja> How do you cope? They think I'm dead.  
[06:15:45] <KingOfCoffee> You are dead.  
[06:15:53] <KingOfCoffee> Well, to them.  
[06:17:32] <KingOfCoffee> I don't cope. My agency was nothing but death, and then I followed suit and my partner used to bloody hunt our kind, so I could not look back. I rebuilt, that's all we can hope to do.  
[06:19:59] <PaperworkNinja> That's what the first evolution did, and look where it got them. We're different. We have no twin. We did not require the presence of others of our kind to Initiate.  
[06:20:23] <KingOfCoffee> Halcyon was destroyed because some aliens figured out their weakness and wiped out the Windhover en masse. You really want to share with the universe that we still exist? Think the two of us can take on all those enemies?  
[06:25:45] <PaperworkNinja> I call bullshit on the coping thing. I think you're trying and failing miserably.

Phil didn't wait for a response, just signed out of the secure IRC chat and server, and closed his laptop. He understood what Ianto - no, he reminded himself, it was John now - was saying. The Windhover had a tragic track record as upholders of Universal Law and had been hunted by every race throughout their entire existence until they were ultimately defeated, vanishing from time and space in a rather epic cessation of being. The two of them existed ... well, they weren't even sure why, exactly. A theory was they were the second evolution. The start of something new. _Children of the Windhover_ Ianto-John had said. 

But the secrecy was so ingrained it had to be some form of genetic memory - he only knew _John_ existed thanks to an op that had taken him to Europe and he'd been startled to recognize another Windhover on the streets. If there were others out there, they were as unknown as his and Ianto's existence. And if Phil went back to his old life after dying, he was not only endangering his own life but Ianto's as well. 

He didn't like it, but as the good Captain had said, it was the only world he had. 

So Phil would figure out this coping thing, see if it didn't work as well as it was for Ianto. 

He started his new job on Monday, things could only look up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we wrap the set up. Needed to get basics in there, catch everyone up and set the stage going forward. Hopefully it wasn't dreadfully dull. :) 
> 
> 1\. There are actually quite a few genetic research labs in Nebraska. Most are ag-based, however.  
> 2\. I never worked at any of them, but I played a doctor on tv.  
> 3\. Which means, I will be sticking with the sales and not the hard science side, which I may have actually worked.  
> 4\. Do not fear, we will be seeing the rest of the team. It's not going to be the Phil and Ianto show, however pretty that might be.  
> 5\. Any questions? Feel free to ask.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. Who am I fooling. Every two weeks is the by-far most likely outcome for updates given job, personal life and my writing speed. 
> 
> Also, on a side note? One of the chainmail bracelets I wear totally gave me a bruise (really? how!?) that is shaped like the 'power' symbol on computers. I am geek-tastic, even in my incidental bruises! Yay!

Phil was _bored_.

Incredibly so. 

Sure, it was the job, in part. Going from working for an agency involved in the protection and defense of the entire planet to working for a company specializing in human genetic research was going to have its sharp adjustment period and a decided difference in potential health outcome following a work order. Training did not involve physical combat, shooting targets, or comprehensive tests. Work did not involve superheroes and their nemeses, potential world destruction by the greedy and powerful, or hunting down the scummiest of slime in the most terrible of places. 

Worst thing he received at work now were papercuts and the occasional tension headache. 

Boring, yet also somewhat gratifying. 

No, the real crux of the situation fell not in the job itself but more in the fact he had a _routine_. Not only did he have a routine, but he’d become disgustingly complacent which went against everything he once lived and taught. He wasn’t sure when it started happening, it’s not like he woke up one morning and decided to repeat the same drive to work after running the same path he’d run the day before. The shift came gradually; and after five months it was something terrifying. 

It was habit. 

Phil couldn’t remember the last time he’d developed a habit. And maybe that was the point; that’s who Phil Johnson was. Phil Johnson, developer of habits. 

He nearly smiled in amusement as he continued to transcribe his notes from the meeting earlier in the morning, which in and of themselves would be enough to bore the pants off a monk. The odd thing was, in both his job at _GeneScape_ as an Administrative Assistant to the Vice President of Sales and his role in S.H.I.E.L.D., he had access to ‘classified’ information and his bosses were quite the dominant characters. Not that Phil remotely considered Nick Fury and Ethan Williams as two men equal in all things, or even on the same playing field. But they were both strong personalities, though that’s generally where the similarities stopped. Ethan Williams stood rather tall at 6’5”, not gangly in the sense of some tall men Phil had seen, but rather a man who was an athlete as a kid and maintained it as he grew older and his career demanded it. Long in the face and a head topped with blond hair fading white thanks to over forty years of life, Ethan exuded a powerful smarm which in Phil’s previous job would have his gut saying sex trafficker or potentially a corrupt politician, but in the world of sales, meant Ethan succeeded more often than failed. 

Ethan created a collegiate atmosphere in the Sales and Acquisitions department, which Phil theorized was more mid-life crisis than a tried and tested sales methodology, although it did seem to work for the pharmaceutical companies Phil researched. The ages of the Sales force ranged from just-drinking-legal to still-can-shake-off-a-hangover-and-work, and drink they did, going out for drinks after work to close the day nearly every day. Celebrations to cap a big sale happened weekly, and the office parties were held in specific locations in order to serve drinks. The ‘party’ atmosphere did foster a team concept, however, no matter the decency or lack of professionalism. The rest of the company tolerated the Sales crew - not that the rest of the company tended to care what the Sales team was up to since they were usually buried in research and development of tools based on the research - but the Sales team did bring results and the human genetic research company had grown by huge profit margins over the past few years. 

Phil would not be surprised at all to find out the company was a Stark subsidiary given the culture, although he had done thorough research, given the tales he’d heard. 

By the end of the first month at _GeneScape_ , Phil had heard stories that belonged more on soap operas than in a business setting, everything from partner swaps at the Christmas parties to pot smoking on the roof with the higher-ups in the company to sales trips that included stealing shopping carts and racing them in the hotel parking lot. Phil won weekly self-bets regarding the youthful temerity of the team and had yet to lose. In one glorious example, he’d caught an email before it was sent where someone had peppered the text with smiley face emoticons. An email to a _billion dollar hospital system CEO_. He believed he showed an incredible amount of decorum and restraint while crafting a casual team email response requesting removal of any smilies from their professional lexicon, before he took an early afternoon and drowned his sorrows in top-shelf bourbon at _The Third Wheel_. Mary had only laughed at him, and one of the bar’s daily patrons had invited Phil to his acreage to target shoot. 

It had been a few months, and holding a gun in his hands again felt unequivocally right. 

His fingers never slowed the frenetic pace over the keys as Phil caught a grey pencil skirt and cane approaching in his periphery. “Form 5C is located in the second set of cabinets, third drawer from the top,” Phil rattled off, his eyes tracking the shorthand on the notepad so he wouldn’t lose his place despite the interruption. If there was one thing he sincerely missed about S.H.I.E.L.D., it was his office. With a door. A door that locked. With the open floor plan/open door theory of the CEO, outside of the research labs no one had an office. Which meant constant interruptions, though it was in part Phil’s duty to ensure that Ethan was not disturbed during the day. Not that Phil had a time-limited agenda yet, however it would be a great day once he could venture out from obscurity and pick up the fight again. 

Or to at least choose a profession that allowed him to carry a gun. 

“Erm…” Phil glanced up from his work, maintaining the empty smile that had Junior Agents quaking in fear, but on the naive, young sales team apparently held a quality more of delighted interest in their personal life. How they managed to get it confused troubled Phil more than he cared to admit and he suffered through endless updates on their families and relationships. “Actually, I did wonder where they had that hidden.” Amber continued with a conspiring grin as she toyed with the Captain America action figure on his desk, and of the lot of them, Phil didn’t mind Amber as much. Older than most of the team in her early thirties, Amber Westly hailed from a military background and had been in the new training class graduated from ‘shadowing a tenured rep’ to ‘selling a drowning man water’ about three months past. She was picturesque like the rest of them - _GeneScape’s_ Sales team were an office of retired Amercrombie  & Fitch models Phil was certain - a petite build that reminded Phil of Dr. Foster, but with a strong physicality more of Agent Hill or Agent Romanoff. She took some shrapnel in her right thigh a few years back, gave up the military and eventually returned to Nebraska to join _GeneScape_. Not how Phil would have figured that particular life post military, but who was he to question anyone’s actions given his own. Maybe she just wanted to hide away for a while, as well. “But that wasn’t why I stopped by. I think the copier’s broken?” 

Phil Johnson’s life in a nutshell: transcribing meeting notes, setting up business trips and fixing broken office electronics.

“Of course.” Phil hit save on the notes and locked the computer out of habit, rather than enforcement by corporate security. The building required keycard access to all entrances but the lobby, had an armed security team nestled away on the second floor who constantly evaluated surveillance videos and roamed the halls, and a restricted internet access that passed through filters. _GeneScape_ on the surface pretended to be secured and did meet all federal requirements for health data security, however Phil had already devised thirteen methods of entering the premises without purchase of additional equipment. A trained spy would have no difficulty gaining access to the building, but Phil reminded himself he was not that person now, and this is more how things were just done in the Plains. Hell, some of Syracuse still left their doors unlocked. 

Joining Amber, Phil adjusted his stride slightly. Not anything noticeably different, as he assumed she would just as likely beat him with her cane should he do that to accommodate her modified walk as she would adjust her own steps to walk that much faster. No, it was more because everything moved at such a different pace. New York is hustle and drive and fast-paced motion, but even in Lincoln - which by Nebraska standards is ‘big city’ - daily life moved at a crawl; determined, yet still crawling. Adapting back to the pace was another habit Phil not only had to break himself of, but one which he had to relearn. “How are things going today?” Phil asked, if only to fill the silence with expected conversation in the walk from his desk to the photocopier. He ran the daily reports of the sales numbers for the team and each individual; he knew everything about how well she was doing. Which even by _GeneScape_ standards were incredibly well. He could appreciate competency, and so he joined Amber for the occasional lunch or after-work drink. 

“Got a lead for Sloan-Kettering,” Amber replied, “they’re interested in using our sequencing research for gene therapy application.” 

For someone so fresh in the game, getting an in to any research-based medical system was a huge break, and Phil imagined he would be updating some more numbers soon. “Congratulations, that’d be a huge contract.” They rounded the corner into the tiny room that housed the printer, photocopier, and all the office supplies a man could dream of, only to find someone else working on the copier. Not that Phil could see the person’s face, just tailored slacks and a rather nice posterior, if Phil allowed his mind to dwell on things like that, especially when those thoughts then carried on to a similar body type he’d seen in various forms of dress. But he didn’t permit that, didn’t tolerate wallowing and he had been moving on perfectly fine. The action figures littering his desk with a certain archer perched on a shelf in a potted plant, those were merely for entertaining the kids - strike that - sales team - when they dropped by his desk to ask a question like what wine to pair with a dinner when they took a potential client out for a wine-and-dine. The action figures were just entertainment, just like watching the nightly news and gossip programs every day for just a glimpse of this new ‘Avengers’ team which had the world transfixed were just exercises to keep his mind active, to look for all the hidden plots and subtext S.H.I.E.L.D. would never release to the public. 

There was no point to want…

And from the surprisingly disappointed look on Amber’s face, she had assumed he had. 

“Problems with the copier?” Phil asked with a touch of drawn out amusement, avoiding any train of thought and decidedly indifferent to the ass bouncing as the owner attempted to fix whatever was wrong with the ridiculous beast of a machine.

“I-no…yes?” Came the annoyed reply, the person still fighting with trays that Phil was certain were not to be removed. The figure uncurled out of his crouch and Phil identified the ~~ass~~ individual as Alejandro Arellano, a relatively new hire that had made the company’s top five list of ‘exceptions’ in the few short months Alejandro had been at _GeneScape_. It was fun to watch the other kids compete for attention, and from what Phil knew of him, Alejandro understood the attention seeking and played it up for what it was worth with every shy look, open smile and casual tousle of natural curly hair. He was third generation Latino, he’d confessed to Phil and Amber while they were at the bar conveniently located two store-fronts from their offices in downtown Lincoln. Despite the heritage, he didn’t speak anything other than English and joked that he was pretty certain he and Amber were hired to bump the minority and disability quotas on the company’s C.V. 

Unrepentantly, Phil shook his head, motioning Alejandro aside with a quick flick of his fingers that in one life may have meant green light was go on the solution. Phil Johnson’s life though? Well, Alejandro would soon receive delivery of a hundred copies of the user manual for failing to fix the machine complete with an annoying pop-up he could have one of the IT guys set up which gave facts of the day regarding that particular copier model. After a brief scan of the lights flashing red, Phil popped the second feed tray, lifted roller three and if his hip bumped the paper load tray one with an extra flair, shit, he was only human and the company’s number one ‘exception’ was watching as he removed the crumpled sheet of paper creating the paper jam like he was a big goddamned hero. Or Avenger. But he didn’t think about that. He was Phil Johnson, badass fixer of paper jams. One day, all would bow to his prowess. 

Jesus, he was bored. 

Phil smoothed his tie while he straightened, his suits the one guilty pleasure he enjoyed from his previous life. The company may have a lax dress code in office, however first paycheck he had purchased a new suit, and then more on the subsequent Fridays. His tailored wardrobe almost passed for what he was used to own, even if he had grown the beard like he’d told Ianto and the colors were more diverse than the strict wardrobe he’d held as Phil Coulson. And the glasses; he wouldn’t be Clark Kent without the glasses. He had done enough facial telemetry with S.H.I.E.L.D. that unless they were explicitly looking for him with a confidence rating of even fifty percent, he’d probably pass on the few cameras he missed in initial and following canvasing. With a quick gesture to the photocopier with a tilt of his head, Phil tossed the mangled culprit into the recycle bin. “Should be all set.” 

With a smile that had melted the resolve of a hundred ladies and probably got the man laid more often than Phil could self-tally on his fingers, Alejandro shared a look with Amber before refocusing on Phil. “Are you certain you aren’t secretly a ninja in disguise?” 

Phil Johnson, owner of Avengers’ action figures and three potted plants and admin to a vice president at a random company in Nebraska, could only smile in response and he hoped to hell the facial hair masked anything he truly thought or even remotely wished at that moment. 

“That’s confidential information.” 

The pair genuinely laughed and Phil did as any ninja ought and swiftly fled the scene, retreating to his desk. Accusing him, the action figures stared relentlessly until he caved and turned the Iron Man figure deliberately away from his side of the desk. Fuck, if he could wrangle Tony Stark, he could handle a bunch of kids on the sales floor.

***

He tried to not make a habit out of it, but after the day he’d had, Phil didn’t think there was any harm in driving home to Syracuse and stopping off at _The Third Wheel_ after work. For once, Mary didn’t even ask as he loosened his tie, just poured him a whiskey and set a Boulevard Wheat next to it. He shot the first, fine whiskey be damned, and settled on to the bar stool which although the place was no ‘Cheers,’ it was the best seat to case the place and none of the locals questioned after it slowly became _his_ seat.

Phil refused to think about work. 

Or at least, he tried. 

The job still rested at the forefront, teasing his thoughts with possibilities and failures. He was an asshole if he thought that the job resided somewhere beneath him in the ladder of job scales. Phil had never thought that and never would. Hell, half the time his role at S.H.I.E.L.D. had been administrative. But at the same time … it certainly was not flying aboard a helicarrier around the world, wrangling superheroes or threatening a god with an untested firearm. 

“Hon, did you catch the news tonight?”

Phil aborted the fixed gaze at the bottom of his pint glass to look, albeit a bit confused, at Mary. He’d heard nothing of the day except fixing the copier and sitting in on countless meetings where people with higher ranking than him argued sales tactics and progress. Mary knew him well, though, ever since the first night he’d stepped foot in the bar and he’d been distracted by current affairs. Not just current. Avengers. Avengers affairs and anything remotely concerning them.

He was bored and he was slipping. Phil wasn’t sure which concerned him more. 

The TV announcer came back from commercial, splashing a screen of a million flashing lightbulbs, and constant thorn-in-his-side Tony Stark uncharacteristically hid his face behind his hands.

Phil straightened, attuned to the television and Mary without question turned up the volume. 

_… billionaire Tony Stark, arrested today on charges of breaking and entering, and murder. Stark Industries’ employee Meadow Guthrie was found dead today in her New York apartment. Witnesses state they heard gun shots and saw Stark exiting the building..._

Work forgotten, Phil focused, focused on the abnormally photographically-reticent Stark and fuck he knew this man. Arrogant asshole, sure. Murderer? His fingers itched to grab his phone and dial Fury’s direct line which he’d memorized day one, just to demand a sit rep on what the hell was god damned happening. He couldn’t. Phil Coulson had fucking _died_ and Phil Johnson was just a shadow of that man, lurking outside of cameras until time passed enough he could emerge as someone new, someone different, someone with an international role to play in the security of the world’s interests. 

Tony Stark? A murderer? 

Mary set a second glass in front of him without question, this time just vodka and shit if that didn’t make him think of Natasha. And just as a demonstration of how lax he’d become, he didn’t even blink as he threw back the shot, not caring if Mary saw how much he was bothered by the news. Of course Phil Johnson was disturbed. This Phil went out with twenty-somethings to celebrate job sales and left for his empty Victorian home in the middle of the country that creaked and rattled at night. This Phil saw the events of New York and tied himself to news updates and reports rather than being there on the ground, giving orders and commanding the clean-up. 

Shit. He'd done the research, he'd read the psych profiles and knew as much about the man's history as one could know when it came to Tony Stark. 

Phil knew it was display. He _knew_ the front, even if he had never told Stark himself. 

And murder? 

No.

Not Iron Man. 

Not fucking Tony Stark. He'd stroll out his team of twenty lawyers and tear down the defense like it was made of paper. 

It was ridiculous, the notion.

Murder? 

Not Tony Stark. If Phil was certain of anything, it was that point. 

And with a slight nod of assent to Mary, Phil decided to get blistering drunk.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! Thanks everyone for reading, and hope you enjoy!

[20:18:16] * Now talking in #featheredfriends *  
[20:18:16] * Topic is 'The Silver Surfer: Where Did His Bits Go? Are They Tucked Under In The Silver Suit Or Did Galactus Vanish Them? Inquiring Minds Want To Know! | Coffee brew of the week: Doma Coffee -- The Chronic - Super Dank | Grammar is not an option!'  
[20:18:16] * Set by KingOfCoffee on Sun Nov 18 15:48:13  
[20:18:19] <PaperworkNinja> Calling in the favor you owe me after Singapore.   
[21:32:55] <KingOfCoffee> Speaking as a friend, I advise rescinding that request. You’re burning a favor on the guilty.   
[21:37:42] <PaperworkNinja> Stark didn’t do it.   
[21:37:53] <PaperworkNinja> I need you to acquire the NYPD investigation report and hack S.H.I.E.L.D.’s system to see what they’ve uncovered.  
[21:38:15] <KingOfCoffee> Step ahead of you. Police inquiry uploaded to the server in the directory \TonyStark\NewYorkPD\22112012  
[21:38:22] <PaperworkNinja> ETA on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s reports?  
[21:39:07] <KingOfCoffee> There are no reports, least not what I could find. It’s either paper or doesn’t exist.   
[21:39:11] <PaperworkNinja> Not possible.  
[21:39:17] <PaperworkNinja> Access anything code named ‘Icarus,’ ‘Iron Man,’ ‘Black Widow,’ or check the activity of Legal, PR and Team Delta.  
[21:40:12] <KingOfCoffee> S.H.I.E.L.D.’s code name for Stark is Icarus?   
[21:40:15] <KingOfCoffee> Nevermind. Of course it is.   
[21:52:44] <KingOfCoffee> Negative on all counts. There is activity with Legal and PR, but none of it is regarding Stark. Team Delta is on mission in Turkey. Nothing flagged with those code names except notation of the arrest warrant and a suspended Avengers status for Stark.   
[21:53:27] <PaperworkNinja> You missed something.   
[21:54:35] <KingOfCoffee> Or your boy is a murderer and your former employer is cutting ties.   
[21:54:39] <PaperworkNinja> Stark is not my boy.   
[21:54:42] <KingOfCoffee> He set up a charity in your name.   
[21:54:44] <PaperworkNinja> It was not in my name.   
[21:54:46] <PaperworkNinja> And he is a lot of things, but he is not a murderer.   
[21:55:07] <KingOfCoffee> I’d be defensive too if a billionaire mourned my death.  
[21:55:20] <PaperworkNinja> Change your search parameters, whatever you have to do. Keep digging. 

Phil signed out of the chat with a curse, not truly blaming Ianto for the failure to find anything, but the thought purged all the other unanswered questions from his mind. That would be the easy answer, and the only rational one that made sense. The other alternative would be that S.H.I.E.L.D. had learned of Tony Stark’s arrest and done nothing. Which made about as much sense as Stark killing a woman he employed in cold blood. No, the easy answer was that Ianto had erred, mistyped Stark’s name in a search. Or maybe the servers he was searching were the dummy systems filled with cover stories, fake intel, and other various false trails for the public eye, interested hackers, and worldwide agencies. 

Shit. He knew that was also so very wrong. 

He stood up, paced the tiny room he used as an office once and then sat down again. Stared at the computer like it might suddenly sprout legs and tap dance on his desk, then hoping it would at least ‘bing’ with an email or news alert or _something_ which would tell him it all had been a joke. Or that Ianto had found his error. But Phil better. He _knew_ , and restless he stood up again and paced the office, five strides up, five back. Ianto had sought him out a few years back, knowing far more than he should about operations and Phil’s career with both the Army and S.H.I.E.L.D. Not that the man was some kind of Stark-level genius, it was more the systems backing him were incredible on an alien scale. Sentient in a way Stark’s A.I. never could be yet equally as proficient when it came to accessing all the things it shouldn’t then carefully covering the tracks. Ianto said he had rescued a portion of it after the offices had been destroyed, something S.H.I.E.L.D. had investigated but backed off once they’d discovered other local organizations were handling it. That had actually been when Ianto had ‘died’, and Phil wasn’t sure if it was loneliness or grief which had driven the man to seek him out, but Phil could certainly appreciate the urge now to connect with someone who understood. 

If Ianto had failed to find anything, that meant there was no S.H.I.E.L.D. involvement in the defense.

Fuck if Phil knew why and the thing that drove him mad was the feeling of utter impotent helplessness. 

For good measure, Phil spun on his heel once more and slapped his hand against the mahogany door frame with a loud ‘crack’. Hurt like hell, but at least it cleared his head for a moment and made it feel like he was doing something, if only to vent his frustration. 

The whole thing just made no _sense_.

***

It was a good thing that Phil knew his body’s limits, and a single night of little sleep would bode no ill effect. After a night spent pacing, reading the police report, and scouring all the news sources and gossip blogs, Phil started the morning far earlier than he would have liked. But he just made his morning run a little shorter and brewed his coffee a bit stronger. He functioned on short nights multiple times a week at S.H.I.E.L.D. and _GeneScape_ would be no different. And so with great confidence he approached work as he approached most things in life - with casual aplomb.

He’d just forgotten how different his new job was. 

With S.H.I.E.L.D., the stakes were often life or death - sometimes of the entire world - and even the downtime was spent analyzing threat reports or building exit strategies in case the plans A-M failed. That fueled a certain amount of drive and determination. At _GeneScape_? By just after ten, Phil had already consumed three cups of coffee in addition to the pot he’d drank at home prior to work. He most certainly did not lose focus during the daily management huddle, and his notes about numbers and forecasts did not contain a patch of writing he would need a translator for. Embarrassment didn’t quite cover it. So instead of wishing for his old sidearm, Phil welcomed the interruptions at his desk that on a normal day would have him grinding his teeth in frustration. 

“I think it’s utterly tragic. I mean - just think. Instead of watching the world’s leading business woman control the boardroom, we’re going to be watching what fashion she wears to a murder trial.” Mindy completed her thought with a twirl of her blond hair, causing Phil to stop and wonder when the last time he’d worked with someone who twirled their hair. 

Strike that thought. If he took a sick day for this, would that count against his perfect record? Comp time. He had some comp time built up. Maybe half a day. 

Phil gave a half smile of feigned interest in Mindy’s take on Tony Stark’s arrest, everyone had an opinion and few were actually Stark’s innocence. Although, what she said held a ring of truth regarding Pepper and the media had not been kind in the twenty-four hour coverage. Hell, finding an impartial jury once it went to trial was going to be a feat in and of itself. The world had already turned into a kettle of vultures, circling the ensuing stock market tumble of Stark Industry with a glee Phil thought only possible in Justin Hammer. 

Actually, that notion had merit. Phil made a mental note to look into Hammer and Hammer Industries once he left work. The company’s profits depended in part on the success or failure of Stark Industry and with Stark in jail, Phil could see the company’s profits escalating. 

“Phil? Sorry to interrupt,” Phil looked up and saw Amber with an armload of files which looked suspiciously like last month’s expense reports and marketing material for _GeneScape’s_ latest human genome discovery and medical application … which had been released to the public months ago. “But do you have a moment?” 

“Excuse me, Mindy. Perhaps we can continue this later?” Phil stated rather than asked, the no-holds barred, definitive ‘no’ tone he tended to use with the Junior Agents who ignored a closed office door. At S.H.I.E.L.D. it made the Agents stammer an apology and flee to their quarters where they sought council with their peers, at _GeneScape_ it mostly caused an open invite to actually continue the conversation at a later time. He had no idea how they were immune. He’d hushed assassins with a look, here he couldn’t even manage his own desk space. 

Maybe it was in the water? 

Phil made another mental note to buy a chemistry and drug-test set and run some tests on the drinking water. 

“Of course!” Mindy sprang up from her chair - a feat Phil likened to a startled kitten - and stepped away so Amber could set the files on his desk. “You’re coming to the Holiday Party, right?” 

If Phil were given to exaggerated demonstrations of emotion, he would have banged his head on his desk. Instead, he settled for focusing his attention on his keyboard under the guise of saving a file. He had been trying to figure a valid excuse for Ethan the past two weeks. “I have the night on my calendar.” 

Which was entirely honest. His calendar was full of nights. 

“Great. I’ll see you there!” 

He would rather challenge the authority of a power-mad dictator with a pellet gun. 

“Looked like you could use a rescue.” Amber slid into the open chair, resting her cane against his desk. “You ok? You look like you’re a step away from mainlining caffeine.”

Phil knew that was actually possible - he’d done so in Budapest. More disconcerting was the fact that Amber had picked up on his unrest. Not that he’d become so lax that he’d given up on all security measures, despite the formation of a few habits. He still ducked all public cameras - relatively easily done in Lincoln and exceedingly simple in Syracuse - and his beard, glasses and winter hats and scarves were enough to throw off a high percentage of facial recognition even if he were caught out. Besides, as far as anyone knew he was dead. There was no reason to waste resources running facial recognition in search of a man killed in action, even if his body had mysteriously disappeared. He’d covered his tracks well enough, and shy of disappearing off the grid completely, it was as close to anonymity as he could enjoy for the time being. No, that Amber had seen fit to ‘rescue’ him, that meant he was becoming far too easy to read. 

Which meant at all. 

“Late night, is all,” Phil clarified, pushing the keyboard away so he wouldn’t be tempted to start building his own file on the Stark investigation to prove Ianto so very wrong. 

“Ah.” Amber didn’t agree but didn’t dismiss, and Phil was grateful for her discretion if he looked tired enough to merit comment. She did tap the Iron Man action figure on his desk, however, and Phil started to wonder if she wasn’t psychic. “Too bad for him, I think he’s been framed.” 

Having not heard a single person utter those words, Phil took interest. “Oh?” 

“The man drives around in the shiniest red mid-life crisis-slash-weaponized prophylactic I’ve ever seen and literally takes a nuke for team USA to cap off fighting a bunch of aliens.” Amber shrugged, picking up the action figure by a leg and mimics what Phil assumes is Iron Man directing the nuke to the tear in space. With the popularity of smart phones, Youtube did not lack in amateur video of nearly the entire event. Phil would deny the hours spent watching and analyzing footage to anyone who asked, but honestly, he was not shocked by Stark’s self-sacrifice. He was more surprised that Stark had survived. “He might be an arrogant dick, but he saves people, he doesn’t kill them.”

“Except when he was in the arms business.” Phil added dryly, idly scratching a hand across his bearded chin. The description did amuse him, though, enough to entertain his mind with visions of saying that to Stark. Then again, Stark might take the ‘weaponized prophylactic’ as either compliment or inspiration and Phil wasn’t sure which frightened him more. 

“You and I both know there is a difference between killing someone in cold blood and creating weapons for military use.” 

Appropriately chastised, Phil nodded his assent, though for probably different reasons than Amber assumed. Hell, he wasn’t one to throw stones at all. 

“Also? I knew it.” Amber crowed, pointing the Iron Man figure at him. 

Not half a breath later, Ethan stepped around the corner from his office area, folder in one hand, cell phone in the other. “Knew what?” 

“Phil has a real smile to go along with all the fake ones.” 

“No kidding? Nice.” Suitably horrified, Phil watched as Amber and Ethan shared a fist-bump in apparent victory. That was his _boss_. Seriously, where did he work? Phil felt confident it had to be a college frat house. “Was beginning to think your previous job had sucked the life from you.” 

Also, terribly accurate, and Phil blamed lack of sleep for the slight twinge of phantom pain in his chest. Fuck, it was nearly six months and Phil swore he still could feel the blade tearing through him, and he blamed whatever sort of trauma psych diagnosis for the reflexive flinch. Which made no sense for Phil Johnson to react to, but Phil was nothing if not adaptable. He simply dredged up Plan Q from an operation in Moscow - only this time it wasn’t the KGB and it didn’t involve a dress, a stolen Faberge egg, and a blown cover. Plan Q: tell the truth. “No soul sucking took place. Just stabbed through with a scepter.” 

“Lawyers.” Ethan nodded conspiringly, as though imparting great wisdom. For Ethan, it may have been wisdom; Phil had yet to research the man’s record outside his work C.V. Phil’s own resume had cited his last job as an Exec Admin for a corporate law firm in New York City, which wasn’t entirely a lie. He’d done that once undercover for nearly six months when he’d still been in the field. With an abrupt change of pace, Ethan tapped his folder. “Meeting with a rep from BioTech, International. Hold my calls, will you?” 

“Of course.” Phil shook the mouse, causing his screen to flare to life. He usually excelled in schedule management, and he didn’t recall anything scheduled. Quickly switching to his Outlook calendar, he checked and saw that his boss did indeed have a lunch meeting planned, which meant that he was stuck there for the day fielding calls and email Ethan usually addressed. But that also meant he’d have the opportunity to check in with Ianto regarding his investigation into Tony Stark. 

“And Phil?” 

“Hmm?” Phil glanced up, only just refraining from disarming Ethan of the cell phone he was using to gesture at Phil. 

“Good to hear you’re going to the party. You’ll have fun.” 

Ethan’s shark-like grin partnered a cocky half-salute, half-wave were all so reminiscent of Fury it made Phil question - just for a moment - the possibility of an alternate reality or some kind of mind-world where Fury was secretly masquerading as a tall, white guy. 

The subsequent image of Fury fist-bumping Hill nearly made him laugh at the absurdity. 

“Looks like you’re going to be busy the rest of the day.” Amber stood after they heard the ‘ping’ of the elevator in the hall indicating Ethan had left the floor, grabbing her cane and files which were excuse, not reason. “I’ll leave you to it.” 

Phil started to respond, but then saw what Amber had done with the action figures on his desk and whatever mutated sound that was going to escape was only muffled through decades of training, though he wasn’t as quick to cover the flush that rose in his cheeks. She only laughed as she walked away, leaving Captain America riding Iron Man while Widow and Hulk watched. 

He carefully separated the lot of them, and tried to be thankful he was no longer involved with the Avengers, lest that actually happen.

***

[06:07:05] * Now talking in #featheredfriends *  
[06:07:05] * Topic is 'Phil Coulson: Ridiculous in his unwavering loyalty, or is Tony Stark actually innocent? One guess, and the second option on the list doesn’t count. | Coffee brew of the week: Equator Coffees -- Mocha Java | Grammar is not an option!'  
[06:07:05] * Set by KingOfCoffee on Sun Dec 2 08:14:22  
[06:07:15] <PaperworkNinja> Dammit, Ianto.  
[06:07:32] <KingOfCoffee> What? You’ve been obsessing for weeks.  
[06:07:44] <PaperworkNinja> Any recent updates?  
[06:08:10] <KingOfCoffee> Let it go, mate.  
[06:08:26] <PaperworkNinja> Stark is not guilty. All the evidence presented so far has been circumstantial.  
[06:09:01] <KingOfCoffee> Which his team of high-priced attorneys will certainly address in a court of law.  
[06:09:13] <KingOfCoffee> Look, you can’t go back. You died.  
[06:09:19] <KingOfCoffee> So you might as well forget about the whole lot of them.  
[06:09:40] <KingOfCoffee> Trust me, I know something about obsession.  
[06:09:52] <PaperworkNinja> Easy for you to say. Most of your team is dead and the agency in ruins.  
[06:10:21] <KingOfCoffee> You know what? Find your own damned information.  
[06:10:23] * KingOfCoffee has left the chat *  
[06:10:32] <PaperworkNinja> Shit.

***

“Aw, look. Our boss is sitting at the kiddie table.”

Phil did not spit-take his wine - he had worked far too long in the Army and S.H.I.E.L.D. for so conventional of an action - but it was a near thing. Throwing his gaze over the edge of the balcony, Phil spotted what Alejandro had so delicately pointed out on the floor below. Ethan indeed sat at a table full of interns, dressed in what was a ridiculously expensive tuxedo in New York much less Nebraska, and turning on the charm for the group of young ladies. It had not escaped Phil’s notice in the past few months that the interns were hired young and female, except for the one instance where Ethan’s nephew had been hired for the gig. If there was one thing Phil could say about his boss, it was that at least he was consistent. The other equally disturbing thought was that while Phil had traded careers post-untimely death, he was still babysitting grown men who behaved like children. And he couldn’t use his damned taser. “I believe the word you’re looking for is ephebophile.” 

“That … is frighteningly accurate.” Alejandro stated after a moment, joining Phil at the railing overlooking the reception hall decked to the disgustingly merry in holiday decorations. At least from their vantage, Phil could avoid the awkward conversation with coworkers who either knew their alcohol limits and swam past them with great joy, or failed to know their limits and might regret the libations the following morning. Most of the party-goers were on the ground floor with the catering, the local cover band ‘The Replacements,’ and the bar. While he was fairly certain no one had yet set fire to the building like had resulted in the banning from their previous holiday party locale, Phil also lacked the confidence that one wouldn’t appear before the evening closed. All roughly one hundred and twenty employees attended the ‘not mandatory, but we would really like to see you there, Phil’ party, most with significant others draped on an elbow and all dressed to the nines. Well, there were a couple individuals in jeans who either decided to buck the dress code or weren’t employees at all, but Phil still had yet to meet everyone who worked the shipping docks and processing. Nothing like a _GeneScape_ holiday party to welcome the season of winter. “You know what these parties need less of?” 

“Fewer women with straying hands on the dance floor?” 

Alejandro smiled around his glass of wine, the same deep red of a Cabernet Sauvignon that Phil had been enjoying over the course of the evening. The selections of varietals were slim, and rather than risk a merlot or a sickenly sweet, dry white, Phil had played it safe. Apparently Alejandro had, too. “Noticed that, did you?” 

Raising his own wine glass in half toast, half salute to the dance floor easily viewed from a floor above, Phil shrugged. Currently, the President of Research and Development Martin Woods and a woman danced an intricate two step to some up-tempo country version of Winter Wonderland, and two other couples shuffled tempo-deaf beside them. Martin’s wife stood near the hors d’oeuvre table in a slinky red dress just short of tasteful, speaking with Jim from Accounting and Phil supposed the sordid rumors he’d heard might be true about past events. He’d seen enough at this one that lent credence to the stories. And he’d also witnessed quite a few women from _GeneScape_ pull Alejandro to the dance floor where he gamely danced to some horrible 80s covers, much to the amusement of most of the Sales team scattered about at the tables with their dates. 

The upper level also gave Phil bird’s-eye view of four of the six exits, the ability to monitor the activities of the entire company and their guests, and two hundred and thirty-two easily accessible items that could be used as a weapon. 

Phil prided himself for the one using the _GeneScape_ logo ice sculpture and a mistletoe berry.

And he certainly had not thought about a certain Hawkeye who would appreciate the heights or the weaponry. 

Or the mistletoe.

Or the fact that he couldn’t recall attending a party like this for anything other than intel gathering with an earwig in his ear and at least one team member on the floor making the rounds. 

“Pretty sure they hold these parties to cut down on the sexual harassment and arguments at work during the rest of the year.” 

Phil huffed in agreement, though whether it was because he actually agreed or because the statement required sound in response he wasn’t sure. Casting a sidelong glance at Alejandro, he actually wondered a moment why the man had sought him out on the second floor balcony area. Not that he’d complain about the company while he bid his time until he could make a reasonably excused exit from the festivities. He’d already suffered through some tedious-yet-necessary small talk with the higher ups, and heard way more than he needed to know about what Research was currently working on - something regarding a certain portion of the human genome, if mapped, could result in a test for susceptibility to certain common viral infections. Phil lost track once they started delving into the transcription process and recessive hereditary traits that skipped multi-generations on the maternal side coinciding with mutation in gene theory and how that might impact stem-cell research … Or those all may have been separate conversation points but they blurred together in his recollection. He was no biologist, and also was why he stuck to the sales side which he understood far more easily. _GeneScape_ was developing models for testing based on their research, and while a portion of the company’s operating money came from grants, the bulk of the profit came from selling their efficient testing methodology and the ever growing database of cataloged sequences. An individual run was one thing, but thousands? Millions? That’s when research organizations came to _GeneScape_ to run their samples against the databases. 

Fascinating, but Phil would need to spend some time with Banner in order to understand it completely. 

Which was never going to happen.

“No, I was thinking more along the lines of the decorations. I hate red and green.” Alejandro spun around to rest his back against the railing, watching the few party-goers behind them as the wine glass dangled from his fingertips. 

“You hate the colors of Christmas.” Phil repeated slowly, a bit incredulous, because the conversation following could go any number of ways, and in this area of the country it was always best to tread lightly. 

“I hate red and green,” Alejandro corrected. “I can’t see red and green and not think Christmas. I look at a Mexican or Italian flag and I start humming ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Freaking Christmas’.” 

Phil hid a smirk behind his wine glass. “Bah hum bug,” he drawled.

“Fine, mock my pain, be an asshole.” It was spoken with no heat, and so Phil took no offense. “So, I have an apology to make.” 

“For calling me an asshole?” Phil deliberately misinterpreted as he cataloged his encounters with Alejandro and any potential apology drivers. His interactions with his coworker were few and far between as the Sales department often traveled throughout the week. 

Laughing, Alejandro shook his head, before running a hand through his hair in what Phil could see only as an awkward case of nerves. “No. So a few weeks back, I sort of had Amber set up that photocopier incident. It really hadn’t jammed until we fed about two dozen sheets through a few times. Then crinkled the corner of some of them together so they’d stick through the feed. And-” Phil blinked, and he most certainly fell back on his training and adopted the most casual expression he could manage while fighting back any blush that threatened his cheeks recalling that day. “-then she went and got you while I pretended to try to fix it. She thought you might be … well … interested. In me. And I thought we might give it a go, but I think we-I managed to offend you. It’s cool here, I totally respect if you aren’t into … I just you know, sorry.”

As propositions and apologies went, Phil could not remember one as incoherent as this one. Incoherent … yet also fairly endearing. As well, the bullied, too-smart-for-his-own-good skinny kid in his head just did an appropriately geeky happy dance akin to when he stood next to Captain America at the thought of Alejandro being interested in _him_. Which was a ridiculous mental dance to hold at his age. Still, he couldn’t resist the opportunity. “So what you’re telling me is, you intentionally damaged company property in order to show off your ‘assets’ to hook up with a coworker?” 

Alejandro frowned a moment, opening his mouth once and closing it before he took a moment to study Phil. Phil took the opportunity to case the reception hall again, pretending obliviousness all the while monitoring the situation with Alejandro to interrupt if anything was misconstrued. 

“You are seriously an asshole.” Alejandro’s amusement shook the glass held in the hand he used to point with, his laughter drawing looks from the few joining them on the balcony, probably more at the individual causing Alejandro’s laughter than the volume.

Phil smiled, an honest, broad smile that sort of warmed into place after being disused for so long. “I wasn’t offended,” Phil clarified, keeping an eye on the bar where something just felt off. “At that moment, you just reminded me a bit of someone I-” And here Phil was stuck, as there were really no words to describe what he’d never had, and well, once he had realized there was no one there to listen, “lost.” He shrugged for lack of a better term. 

“Shit, Phil. I’m sorry.” Alejandro looked thoroughly distressed on Phil’s behalf and Phil hadn’t really meant it like that. Not exactly. Someone had died. It had just been Phil. But Hallmark lacked the ‘sorry I died’ cards in the bereavement section to add some canned platitudes to the conversation and Phil still wasn’t sure what he thought of his new walk in life to try to make it better. 

Phil waved off the concern, and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I need a few months to sort things out, I honestly hadn’t even considered that part of starting over.” Turning towards Alejandro, Phil leaned an elbow on the railing. This was a coworker, and as much fun as an evening with Alejandro might be, Phil typically did not get involved in ‘just for fun,’ especially when the fallout could impact both their jobs. “If the interest is still there and we’re both single, we’ll have this conversation again, preferably at a non-work event. But no foul if you meet someone in the mean time.”

“Or if you do,” Alejandro added with a respectful nod, though Phil couldn’t fathom the notion of meeting another before he got his life straightened out. Which led to the more important question, how the hell was he supposed to do that without even a sounding board. Shit, he’d been drifting and Ianto was right, he needed to let that past go. 

A few months. He’d give himself a few months to work things out. 

But first, there was a different matter to attend to. Phil felt any trace of smile slip from his face as he watched an unfamiliar face pull away from the bar, hand dipping into his pocket before covering the mouth of a glass. Tracking the movement as the man casually strolled to a table of where a couple women sat, Phil again questioned if he wasn’t working at a college system. The Holiday Party was a corporate affair, who the hell brings roofies to a business party? If on a mission, Phil would assume something else entirely. However, this mostly boiled down to a predator with a complete disregard for consent. 

Every protective urge flared, far worse now it seemed given just the lack of _anything_ of late. He’d always had an outlet, always felt he’d been doing something good in the Army or with S.H.I.E.L.D., and here he’d been sitting at a desk all day compiling reports and proofing proposals. Phil would have to work that line of question into the few months ‘sort out’ time line as well; it wasn’t something he’d noticed before and Ianto had never brought it up. Not that it was something unique; perhaps it was just Windhover nature, or perhaps it was just him. The challenge when playing with no rule book often involved figuring out who was even playing to begin with. 

But for the moment - 

“Phil?” 

“A moment,” Phil straightened, falling in to the old habits of Agent Coulson without a second thought and with more relish than he should have probably enjoyed. The old familiar rush of adrenalin coursed and tripped the ancient ‘fight or flight’ switch which brings a variety of responses but in Phil it had always triggered a calm confidence. It was why so many of his missions resulted in successes despite being utter catastrophes from the start. It’s why he and team Delta worked so well, because despite all the shenanigans on comms, as the three of them responded to crisis in much the same fashion. And it’s why he went after Loki with that damned gun. He should probably internally address that as well. “Someone’s looking to cause trouble.” He quickly set his drink on a table as he passed, taking the flight of stairs as an opportunity to straighten his tie and jacket. 

Presentation in the game was everything. 

Phil heard Alejandro following, and started creating a few plan options which included the other man. Despite any assurance as far as capability, Alejandro was fit; Phil figured he could hold his own in a fight if necessary. Hopefully, if Phil’s initial idea went according to plan, backup would not be required. 

“Becca?” Phil slowed as he approached the table, calculating relative response time of his target. Really, it wouldn’t even be fair. Phil nodded at Becca who greeted him as he approached. Part of the Research team Phil had spoken with earlier, Becca reminded him a lot of Doctor Foster in her obsession when it came to scientific research. Reminded him a bit of her even in appearance, too. “Would you please set the glass down on the table?” 

“Excuse me?” Becca replied, affronted and almost clutching the cocktail-filled glass closer. Her friend, Phil belatedly recognized her as Mindy from Sales, chimed in a protest, as did the man at the table who Phil was quite certain was a guest of someone at the event, maybe even Becca herself. But Phil had a definite problem with what was playing out. Unless he was wrong and he rarely was when it came to a drugged beverage. That sense had kept him and his agents alive many a time. 

Phil changed tactics when Plan A didn’t resolve the situation. With hands casually at his sides, Phil simply spoke as Agent Coulson. “Place the glass on the table,” he requested in a tone that brokered no argument, and was pleased that while Becca still wore a look of incredible confusion, she did as he requested. “Thank you,” he followed up before turning his attention on the unidentified guest, who had started to perspire slightly at the brow. The guilty always sweat, Phil noted absently. “You? Come with me. I will escort you from the premises, and we’ll all end the night on a conscious note.” 

“What is going on, Ryan?” Becca asked a bit more concerned with the happenings than before, and Phil noticed they were starting to draw attention. Ethan had separated himself from the table a few steps down and was joining them with an uncharacteristic frown on his face.

Also, Phil had a first name. 

“Becca, the gentleman’s last name?” 

“Miller.” 

Phil felt his jaw clench as he bit back a smirk. The return of Mr. Miller was almost guaranteed unlikely; Phil could do a lot with a full name. “Mr. Miller, if you would join me. You are finished here for the evening.” With a quick look at Alejandro, Phil nodded at the glass. “Please take that glass and dispose of the contents, then get Becca a clean drink.” Alejandro took the glass without question, and Phil had to roll his eyes as one Ryan Miller chose that moment to rush at Phil in what he assumed was an attempt to escape with some dignity. 

Plan E. Target fights back. 

Quickly stepping to the side, Phil evaded the head-long rush and grabbed his assailant’s hand while clipping an exposed ankle to send the man crashing to the floor. Twisting the arm back, Phil knelt on Mr. Miller’s back, pinning him in place in less time than it would take Barton to notch an arrow. Well, maybe not notch the arrow. But at least before Barton would be able to get a shot off. Phil would find time to taunt him later about that, perhaps even test the theory. Speaking of, where was -

“Phil, do I need to call the cops?” 

\- backup. 

With resignation that almost _hurt_ to acknowledge, Phil shook off his mental lapse and glanced up at Ethan, towering above him. They’d developed a crowd now, some more shocked than actively participating, a few others actually rolling their sleeves in case they were called on to join the fight. “That is up to Mr. Miller,” Phil finally answered, giving the arm a little twist in threat, “do you want Ethan to call the cops, or will you allow me to escort you from the building?” 

“I’ll leave, I’ll leave!” Came the frantic response, and really, Phil both sincerely grateful and a bit disappointed that the fight was that short. Any longer, and cell phones may have become involved, recording the event which would have caused an endless amount of trouble. “Just let go of my arm, man!” 

Phil acknowledged the response and stood with a grace he had honed over the years. He made for his sidearm to ensure there would be no further trouble from Mr. Miller before recalling he was a civilian and he had no weapon, not even his taser. The whole situation tore at the carefully crafted persona of Phil Johnson and Phil could feel it shattering faster than he could rebuild it. He needed to remove Mr. Miller from the building, but he also needed to get himself out as well. This was not who he had become, and that fragile idea splintered deeper the longer he stayed. For a moment he’d been back, reclaimed Agent Coulson and had his team there to back him up. 

Only they weren’t. 

And fuck if it wasn’t all he could do not to kick something in disappointed rage. 

Mr. Miller looked like a promising target, but Phil had that whole civilian image to uphold. 

“We’ll take it from here,” a security team member built like a linebacker stated, and Phil blinked at having missed their arrival. Three security guards that looked as though they could carry a cow on each shoulder formed an intimidating front, guiding Mr. Miller to his feet while they glared ominously, their tasers in hand. One remained behind, attending to Becca first who had finally realized what had happened and understandably appeared quite shaken. Phil rolled his shoulders, trying to find that relaxed, casual Phil Johnson again before he got too used to anything else. He overheard mention of the cops in the conversation between Becca and the security guard, so Phil was fairly certain they had actually been called rather than just an empty threat.

“I’d ask if you’re okay, but I think the other guy never even stood a chance. So, instead, are you good, Phil?” 

Phil turned reluctantly toward his boss even while he planned his exit strategy. “I’m good,” he stated slowly, taking in how many were watching the conversation and revising just how terribly not okay things were. For laying low and staying out of the public eye, Phil was doing a terrible job. 

Ethan bobbed his head in such an easy-going manner Phil was almost jealous. Almost. His boss still reminded him of a stereotypical used car salesman at times who had a penchant for pretty young college girls. “Alright. Go ahead and get yourself on home, cops will be here shortly and that’s going to make for a long evening. Good thing the security guards showed up to take care of the guy, right?” 

The few people around watching added their agreement, though some of them looked a bit confused by it. Phil counted himself as one of them. Or rather, that the news was too good to be true. Alejandro wasn’t around, so Phil assumed he had gone either to dispose of the glass or collect it for evidence. Phil just thanked chance and old patterns that he hadn’t touched the glass. Fingerprints would be potentially difficult to explain. Drawing his attention away from everything and everyone, Ethan slung an arm over Phil’s shoulders as they walked towards an exit, and for once, Phil didn’t even remotely consider his current boss anything like his old boss. For one, Fury would never wear that cologne. Second? Fury would just as soon eat glass than touch another person under his command in such a casual manner. 

“Lawyers, huh?” 

Phil really had nothing to say to address the non-question, nor did he have anything remotely feasible prepared as an answer, thrown for the second time in an evening having underestimated his situation entirely. Ethan just laughed that boisterous, donkey-laugh of his, and thumped Phil on the back a couple times with what Phil knew to be standard Midwestern affection. “Don’t really care, Phil. See you on Monday.” 

“See you on Monday,” Phil agreed, surprising himself. 

Maybe an exit strategy wasn’t necessary. Yet. 

And he had til Monday to find Phil Johnson and bury Phil Coulson for good.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me through the personal stuff! On the plus side, because I'm pretty sure my family is insane, I now have 2 new characters/ideas to use in a story one day. Because you can't make that kind of crazy up. 
> 
> This chapter beta'd and encouraged by the fabulous Ashby. 
> 
> Also, no Wolverines were harmed in the creation of this chapter. But if Wolverine had, he'd just get better anyway.

By the Monday morning after the Holiday Party fiasco, Phil considered himself ready.

Prepared.

Unquestionably focused.

And this time, he was fairly certain he wasn’t lying to himself.

Logically, Phil understood he had been mourning the loss of everything he knew and had responded quite poorly to the change. Ridiculously poor. Fuck, he’d been _cruel_ and absolutely deserved the radio silence from Ianto. That did not excuse his actions, however, and he knew he owed an apology and probably more than one favor in return when he spoke to Ianto again.

If he did.

That had been an utterly horrid thing to say.

Phil also didn’t miss the not so subtle coincidence, that his childhood hero and he were far more alike than he cared to admit on the point of grieving that loss, though Phil rather thought Steve Rogers handled it with far more grace. Unlike Rogers, Phil’s traitorous mind had so helpfully supplied, he hadn’t had anyone watching over him while he slept upon his return. Christ, he still couldn’t believe he had said that to _Captain America_. Give him a minute with the Rogers and Phil turned into a gibbering fanboy. If there was one bonus to the situation, at least Phil hadn’t lingered long enough to suffer future embarrassment or taunting at the hands of Sitwell or Barton. And Phil hadn’t skipped eras like the Captain, a feat Phil wasn’t entirely sure couldn’t happen given what Ianto had learned of the Windhover - that they existed outside of time and space - but thus far he’d maintained a linear course. He should consider himself lucky. It was not the first time he had died and started over somewhere else, as someone else. Before Phil Coulson, there had been Phil Williamson and Phil Thompson. And before that, Phil Jacobson. Phil Coulson simply had the most tenure. And it probably wouldn’t be the last.

This time, though. It was different.

He cared too much.

It was damned different. He’d grown so attached, so connected to those around him that he’d forgotten who he was, what he was. Forgotten; and that thought terrified him simply because he had become so invested in Coulson he had forgotten everything it meant to be Windhover. Coulson had cared, not just for himself and the persona, but the people and relationships he’d developed, the good accomplished and the impact. In Phil Coulson he had felt truly alive and the closest he’d felt to fulfilling his purpose, all without knowledge or understanding of that purpose. Hell, until he had encountered Ianto, Phil hadn’t even entertained the notion there were other Windhover out there. Everyone he looked at, everything he saw was so fucking human that the likelihood seemed so far removed.

Then Ianto. Thor. _Loki_.

Loki killing Phil Coulson had not been in the possible outcomes he had entertained. Phil had grown so accustomed to the little feed in the back of his mind - just on the edge of vision - linked to the central data base of Windhover knowledge (or existence, neither he or Ianto were certain of the difference, yet) that he had missed the mimicked image. He’d been lax in his duties, even with the hostile actions aboard the helicarrier, perhaps because he had been more than slightly distracted by the loss of his asset.

He’d forgotten everything he was; ignored everything the Windhover allowed him to be. 

That wouldn’t happen again.

Over the weekend, Phil did what he did best.

He organized.

Phil gathered all the Avengers files, analyses, and clippings he’d collected and/or written over the course of about six months and neatly tucked them away in a bankers box. Stowing the box in the attic, Phil shut the door and resisted the urge to go back in. Wasn’t even that difficult a refusal.

He just walked away and ignored the terrible stabbing pain in his chest that was Loki all over again.

Went for a run, then, in the disgustingly bland Nebraska winter where mild temperatures had left the ground bare of the snow which typically dusted the land this time in December. He ran a different path this time, changed his course. Maybe it was a metaphorical distancing of himself, maybe it was just distraction. Phil figured it might very well be both. But whatever took him to the county roads led him past the sleeping fields and into the tiny sprawl of a town that defined Syracuse. People he wouldn’t qualify as neighbors or friends waved brightly as he ran; acquaintances he’d met at The Third Wheel or the tiny town library, or people just shouting hello because that’s what one did in Nebraska to someone they knew, even if they’d never met. 

He was a Jacobson, that’s all that mattered.

And because of that, he avoided the town’s elders. Wouldn’t do any good to give them any reason to question his presence. Not that he believed they would link him to any memories of a scrawny kid from the past, but Phil knew it would only bring him trouble. _More_ trouble. Shit, he was a magnet for trouble. Maybe it wasn’t actually Barton and Stark, maybe it was just their connection to him.

Well, things should calm for the Avengers, then, Phil surmised.

And for once, Phil let the thought go.

He ran, circled the town square and began the return journey with more determination than before. Work he could manage; he’d dealt with worse in the past. Worse bosses, worse situations, worse everything. The Holiday Party simply reminded him not to go through the motions. He could build something, something that had promise.

Something that was not the Avengers.

Something not S.H.I.E.L.D.

Slowly the town faded behind Phil, scattered houses dwindling until nothing remained except the open road. He detoured from the original path, taking a route that led him to the place where the old tree once stood. Phil slowed his pace until the jog became a walk, a walk where his steps were guided by something unconscious.

That connection, that feeling of home so utter that Phil could almost believe his own feet grew roots into the soil.

He wasn’t sure what it was about this place, this spot where the light seemed to shimmer and the horizon stretched into a slight bow of earth and sky.

Phil recalled the moment when he first awoke on the fields, some seven months prior. That feeling, the one where he could in fact succeed in this new life before all the doubts, habits and complacency had returned. Only this time, this time differed from the previous.

This time, Phil believed he could.

It wasn’t that he wished to forget Phil Coulson, or that he even could.

This time, Phil accepted that as much as he was Windhover, he was Phil Coulson as well as everyone before.

A sum of parts, rather than a part of a whole.

That link, humming in the back corner of his mind where the Windhover existed, grew loud once again. He forgot about the run, forgot about the slight chill of the wind as it blew over the sweat accumulating on his skin and clothing.

His existence wasn’t about forgetting.

It was acceptance. Of the original Windhover defeat and his own.

It was remembering the past, the experiences and using that going forward.

He would not forget S.H.I.E.L.D or the Avengers, nor would he forget the people, the friends and near as close to family as he had experienced in all the decades.

Phil had a responsibility to become more.

And with a slight nod to the emptiness where the tree once stood, Phil turned for a cool-down walk home.

The following day brought Monday, and a return to work and all that entailed following the events of the Holiday Party.

Phil Johnson was ready.

***

Work brought with it little excitement, just as always.

A different tone permeated the office, however. Amber left a sticky note on his desk, berating him for playing the action hero without a cape while she wasn’t there. A new action figure had also joined his crew - not one that Phil recognized as any released with the Avengers line - sitting atop a still-hot mug of coffee. _’Thank you - Becca_ the card read, and Phil found it odd enough he stared at the card just a bit longer than he would normally have given a single card. He sat a moment, stunned a bit into an almost puzzled silence. For all his time with the military and with S.H.I.E.L.D., protecting and serving others had been the mission, not a justification. Thank yous had never been in the outcomes and often times those outcomes had been paired with fleeing for their lives or under cover of night.

With a smile he had not entertained over the weekend, Phil slipped the thank you into the top drawer of his desk, right next to his tie pin of a bow and arrow that he never wore but always kept near.

Reminders.

“Phil, good to see you this morning.”

Phil glanced up, having heard his boss’ approach soon enough that the smile had vanished, replaced by his Coulson mask of calm. And that was the thing - it wasn’t that Coulson needed to be erased. Coulson existed down to the core and Phil knew he couldn’t remove that sense of identity any more than he could stop preferring coffee over tea.

He would become more than Coulson, as Phil Johnson.

“Good morning,” Phil replied evenly, picking the action figure of the suited man (he was fairly certain it came from a Men in Black collection, which amused him terribly on so many levels) off his coffee and placing it next to the scattered Avengers on his desk. And while Coulson never would have anything remotely playful on his desk at S.H.I.E.L.D., Phil Johnson absolutely did. Confidently, Phil gathered the file containing the reports he knew Ethan would be looking for on a Monday morning and handed it off to his boss before he could ask for them. “I had some ideas about implementing a few changes in the weekly meeting reporting structure and in proposal submission procedure, as well as thoughts about the cold calling script. When you have a free moment,” Phil added as an afterthought. He knew Ethan’s schedule, after all.

Ethan’s grin could only be characterized as shark-like. “Grab your coffee and walk with me.”

Was he a used car salesman frat boy who chased after women decades younger than him? Yes. But he was also a numbers-driven, exceedingly competitive, successful business manager on top of that. It was Tony Stark meets Maria Hill with a bunch of Junior Agents in the mix.

This combination Phil knew and understood. Turn around the Sales floor of _GeneScape_?

Easier than stealing a nuke from an arms dealer and liberating Croatia with one bullet in his gun.

Which he’d done. Successfully. 

This wouldn’t even be a challenge.

***

Life shifted. Altered. Not in any drastic sense, but in a less terrifying, more genuine way. Fewer sleepless nights, fewer nightmares of spears and lost agents, and a return of the control that Phil enjoyed at work and home. He still followed the Avengers, but now mostly just idle curiosity and to keep abreast of alien news for the requisite water cooler talk, because aliens never ceased to be conversation, especially in college football off-season in Nebraska.

Agreeing to the second time the question was bumblingly asked, Phil went on a date with Alejandro. It wasn’t much, dinner at Pepe’s; a quaint local, vegan restaurant that served an impressive Mexican menu. They followed dinner with drinks, and the conversation flowed light and entertaining. The evening ended with them parting to their separate vehicles, agreeing that this was something they had enjoyed and would have to be replicated in the future. 

It had been fun. And an experience Phil hadn’t had in quite some time. He couldn’t even recall the last date he had been on that hadn’t involved a mission cover.

It had been nice. 

Even if Alejandro wasn’t Clint. 

Tony Stark was under house arrest in New York awaiting his court date; apparently no one wished to put him in a prison population - Phil figured it would either turn into organized riots complete with robots made out of prison sporks and bedding wire, or a bloody massacre as the inmates turned on the genius. Not that Stark wasn’t capable of fooling any GPS tracking unit fixed to his ankle, but according to the news, surprisingly he had played along and hadn’t caused any trouble.

They would have Pepper to thank for that, Phil assumed.

The media had a few things to gossip about regarding the relationship of those two as well, but Phil mostly ignored it.

He signed into Ianto’s server and their chat every day, always looking but never seeing his fellow Windhover. An effort in futility, he supposed, or definition of insanity, but he kept trying. There was still so much they didn’t know, so much about the Windhover, their purpose, their capabilities and creation, that Phil did not want to stop that exploration and research. He’d written reams of theory in the meantime, and there simply was no one around to share it with.

And with his daily routine of coffee and news in the morning following his run (a different path every day), Phil signed in yet again.

[06:35:23] * Now talking in #featheredfriends *  
[06:35:23] * Topic is ‘Wolverine: Worst Hero or the Worst Hero? Seriously, all the guy does is get beat up, repeatedly. Then stabs people with his fingernails instead using a gun. And fights Magneto which is the dumbest move ever as a man with a metal skeleton. Can someone feed some logic to the man? | Coffee brew of the week: Vivace Espresso Dolce | Grammar is not an option!'  
[06:35:23] * Set by KingOfCoffee on Wed Apr 17 04:39:58  
[06:35:43] <PaperworkNinja> Ianto. I owe you an apology.  
[06:37:12] <KingOfCoffee> Yes, you do. In kilos of coffee. But now is not the time.  
[06:37:15] <KingOfCoffee> So your theory about Stark’s innocence.  
[06:37:26] <KingOfCoffee> It may not be such a bad concept, after all.  
[06:37:42] <PaperworkNinja> I still believe he’s innocent. But like you said, there’s nothing I can do.  
[06:37:57] <KingOfCoffee> Yeah.  
[06:38:04] <KingOfCoffee> Here’s the thing. Rogers just got recalled for active duty.  
[06:38:09] <KingOfCoffee> In Afghanistan.  
[06:38:13] <PaperworkNinja> What?  
[06:38:19] <KingOfCoffee> Eloquent.  
[06:38:23] <PaperworkNinja> Let me elaborate. What the hell?  
[06:38:28] <KingOfCoffee> Some orders came down, and on the surface, they look legit to me. He deploys tomorrow.  
[06:38:35] <PaperworkNinja> Nonsense. He’s more than served his commitment, and we ensured the paperwork complete to prevent this while finalizing the Avengers Initiative. Who are the orders from?  
[06:38:45] <KingOfCoffee> That’s the odd thing. Not a General I can find in any of the records.  
[06:38:52] <KingOfCoffee> And Director Fury signed off on it.  
[06:39:09] <PaperworkNinja> Where are these orders? I don’t see how any of this can stand. He’s part of the Avengers.  
[06:39:32] <KingOfCoffee> About that. Six weeks ago, Banner vanished. About two weeks ago, your team Delta had arrest warrants issued by S.H.I.E.L.D. They’ve gone AWOL, though no media outlets are reporting it yet. Rogers was the only Avenger left other than Thor, and no one’s seen the god of Thunder since the Manhattan battle.  
[06:39:38] <KingOfCoffee> So I’m inclined to believe that Stark may have been set up. The Avengers have been thoroughly disbanded.

Disbelief clouding all the calm, Phil stared aghast at his computer screen, his hand reaching for his prepaid phone a dozen times and retracting each time until he finally gave in and picked up the device. He didn’t make the call he itched to make, a quick ‘What the hell?’ to Nick would clear the air but raise a dozen new questions about Phil himself. He chose instead to pace the room a few trips before putting the phone in the kitchen - tucked away in the breadbox - just to keep the temptation away. Or, at the very least, harder to access. 

He considered the files up in the attic, shut away and something he had resolved never to touch again simply because he would obsess, losing himself to a world to which he no longer belonged. He couldn’t. There were things he wanted, _people_ he wanted, a life he’d lost and if he had them in sight again … No. There were two of them at risk, and countless others if more Windhover had been created in that last passing thought before the end of their existence and the beginning of his. 

But Ianto had presented him with this information. 

Ianto _knew_ what this meant. 

Fuck it. 

[06:45:51] <PaperworkNinja> Give me everything you’ve got on this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww yeah. 
> 
> And so it begins. 
> 
> This is the fun that's been in my brain for months now. 
> 
> I cannot say how giddy I am to write what's to come.


	6. Chapter 5

The banker’s box of post-battle Avengers information and statistics remained shut away in the attic. 

Phil knew compartmentalizing was not the solution, nor were excuses. However, the deeply ingrained fear still lingered on the Phil of chaotic disrepair that existed for months following the battle and Coulson’s death. And so while logically it made little sense, Phil left the box untouched, unwilling to look that part of his life directly in the eye. 

Besides, all the content was memorized. 

He’d personally written the analyses, after all. 

Phil heard a new tone emanate from his computer’s speakers, a ring that he assumed was due to the new software he had installed per request. The thought of a communication request - even if it was expected - completely derailed his train of thought and prevented any melancholy reminiscence, guilt or shame. 

“Fuck mate, you really did grow a beard and went all Clark Kent with the glasses.” 

Phil refrained from rolling his eyes, but only just - given his repeated exposure to Barton, he’d learned restraint in the face of great temptation. Ianto smirked at him anyway from the VoIP call; Phil’s computer monitor doing little to mask the other man’s amusement in pixels. The video call was something new, but Ianto insisted that his fingers had better things to do with their time than type responses to Phil’s hundred-and-one questions. The software opened over a secured line which Ianto assured was completely safe from interloping S.H.I.E.L.D. watchdogs and nosy AIs. Apparently the alien mainframe Ianto used covered their tracks, not in a vanishing sense but make in a way that made the tracks so obvious and boring that queries ignored the data stream. ‘Encoded in Justin Bieber images and videos’ Ianto wrote, but Phil still doubted whether Ianto spoke truth or fiction. 

Burying the data in pop icon’s images just unnerved him. 

Also, it presented the question of how Ianto had acquired such content. 

Taking the opportunity, Phil studied his fellow Windhover, whom he hadn’t seen in years. Gone was the haunted look which Phil had originally seen on the streets of Bergen. He knew Ianto - no, John aw hell if he was ever going to refer to Ianto as anything other than Ianto in his own mind - had been living his new life for about a year when they’d met in Norway. At the time, the other man had appeared equally as startled and Phil had almost asked if he would join him for coffee, despite the mission and a dozen operatives in the field. There had just been a _need_ to connect and Phil almost gave in. 

Now? Now, Ianto looked far better, the circles under his eyes gone and the pinched look of the constantly hyper-aware faded into a far more genial appearance. His hair was longer, and for the most part he looked … Phil believed the word he was looking for was whole. Ianto looked less stretched and thin, more complete. 

Phil wasn’t sure if that was Windhover or simply just the man’s life experience. “I see you haven’t done either one.” 

Phil watched Ianto shrug and take a sip of something from the mug beside him. Coffee, Phil assumed, justifying the assumption on the fact that Ianto posted new brews every week. “It’s like you said, all my team’s dead or missing. No one to hide from.” 

He was far too trained an agent to outwardly wince, however Phil felt the action ripple under his skin in phantom response. “Ianto-”

“No,” Ianto interrupted, shaking his head. “We covered that and you still owe me a couple kilos of coffee. So, right then. Did you get a chance to look at the file uploads?” 

“Yes. I’ve already started plotting this out, connecting what points we do know.” Phil grabbed a pen off his desk, tapping it a few times on the notebook he planned on jotting down ideas. He could type, but paper simply held a familiar scent that struck a deep resonance. 

“You know this lot better than I.” 

The tone made Phil pause, redirecting his focus back at the computer monitor and the slightly pixelated face of Ianto. Phil had been so focused on the news that the Avengers had scattered, that he’d forgotten the real question. Getting Phil back in the intrigue, in the hunt for answers for the team that thought him dead, Ianto’s actions made little sense. “Why are you doing this for me?” He paused gesturing with his pen to encompass everything from his monitor to himself. 

Ianto’s face ducked behind a mug which Phil knew without question was as intentional as it was meant to dissemble. “The world needs heroes,” Ianto started, setting down the mug but his attention was off camera, the look unfocused. “They know aliens exist, now, and are scared and confused in the media frenzy of bible thumpers preaching end times and scientists claiming they understand what drives alien behavior. None of this is anything remotely within the realm of normal for most people, and they are looking for a means of coping in a time for which they are vastly unprepared.” 

“The Avengers,” Phil finished, nodding his head in agreement. 

“Right. And now they’re gone, leaving the common world in a question of stability and control. With the Avengers, they had a face to fight the nightmares.” 

Phil took a moment to glance at his pin board spanning one wall, the strings connecting pins as scattered as the team right now. “You think this is an act of terror.” Statement, no question necessary. The theory rested among the top of in Phil’s mind, second only to remove those most capable of international planetary defense. 

“I think that it’s not a good thing for the Earth’s protectors to suddenly vanish from the war.”

More true things might have been said in all of history, but few carried the same weight. 

Not to Phil. 

And certainly not to a Windhover. 

Ianto spoke the phrase with purpose; Phil had no doubt. He just remained unclear the lengths to which Ianto intended them. But Phil would let the question lie, for now. Things had moderately improved since Phil’s terrible slip, and he wasn’t going to threaten the tenuous relationship with pestering questions which Ianto clearly did not wish to answer. “Have you discovered anything new?” 

“No.” Phil could both hear and see Ianto’s annoyance with the lack of updated information. “Been searching for signs of Banner but he’s doing better at avoiding S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar this time around. He may have some assistance from Stark and his AI on that one, but I’m not positive.”

“On board the Helicarrier, they had a rapport.” Phil scratched his jaw, the beard crackling in reply. As much as he appreciated the cover, he would be glad when he no longer had to wear it. Far too much maintenance and itch, little purpose other than obscuring his appearance. “I think Stark would respect his intelligence. Not to mention, I think Stark sympathizes with Banner’s anger.”

“Stark has an angry Hulk inside him?”

“Not exactly,” Phil hedged, scribbling a side not in the margin to himself to buy milk next time he went grocery shopping, “but he did create a suit and the character of Iron Man, which allows him to extract great damage on the targets of his anger while maintaining his public persona as Tony Stark.”

“Or to protect anyone or anything he cared about.” 

Phil saluted Ianto’s response with his pen. It was one of the theories he had presented to Fury, a long time ago when discussing the should he/shouldn’t he join the Avengers question. Phil hadn’t thought it wise to disregard the man based on his social appearances when his drive coincided with Banner’s, and it was one he and Fury had argued in circles over Scotch in the late hours of the evening on more than one occasion.

“So if Banner’s got Stark potentially helping him hide, reason stands that he may be helping Agents Barton and Romanoff.” Phil could see Ianto typing on another keyboard while he talked, and Phil briefly wondered if Ianto was working on his grocery list too, as a thought-focusing tool.

“Potentially. But they’re skilled enough and know S.H.I.E.l.D. well enough to go off grid and stay there without assistance.”

“Could they be working together?” 

Ianto’s question stumped Phil, and it had been a question he’d considered long before and still had no answer. Yes, Stark had been placed under house arrest, but house arrest for Tony Stark meant isolated in his mansion of a tower that encompassed a city block, in which he would still have access to all the technology and indulgences of the ridiculously wealthy. It was plausible that they could be working together - but to what end? Stark’s trial and the two’s arrest warrants with S.H.I.E.L.D. were not connected in any way Phil could discern at this time given the information they had collected. 

Unrelated, but entirely too coincidental to be chance. 

Maybe they’d all been exposed to a biological agent causing them to collectively lose their minds. 

Including Fury for signing off on those bogus orders for Roger’s reassignment.

“Any toxicology reports?” Phil supposed the idea did have some merit. Or at least more merit than Stark murdering an employee. 

“On the Avengers?” Ianto typed a few things then disappeared from the camera focus for a moment, returning with what looked like a full cup of coffee. “Nothing abnormal showing in the labs medical had run post-mission leading up to the disbandment. Huh. Hold on a tic.” Phil watched as Ianto frowned, brows gathering as he began reading something else out of Phil’s line of sight. “So nothing on the Avengers. But hospital did run a full tox panel on the lady Stark allegedly killed. In _her_ blood work, labs found a compound they couldn’t identify, and I was shit in chemistry at school, so I can't make an educated guess.” 

Phil absorbed the information with relative calm, though he could almost feel his mind pick up with interest. “Cross reference with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Already querying.” A moment later, Ianto’s curse indicated the results of that search. “I thought you lot had your hands in everything?” 

“Enough to merit a secondary screen against our database of known toxins and compounds.” Phil made notes as he went, realizing after he spoke that he again included himself as active S.H.I.E.L.D. For his own sanity, he needed to stop doing that. “Even if Stark wasn’t involved, something suspicious showing up in the blood work of an ordinary citizen would have warranted at least a look.” Phil tapped his pen a few times on the notebook. “If it’s an unknown, there’s a chance other agencies are looking into it as well for their own gain.” 

“Right.” Ianto quieted again, and in the silence filed with sporadic typing, Phil stood and added another pin to his wall, connecting Meadow Guthrie to an unknown. Phil had all the points color coded, and for the moment, there was far too much green ‘unknown’ for his liking. “So U.N.I.T. has a biologicals division, yeah? Someone I used to know is on the team leading their investigation, supplementing their information with Torchwood data recovered from whatever Archives remained after the blast. They’ve got no clue on the compound, theory is it’s a designer drug, but nothing to back the theory.” 

Phil returned to his desk with more questions than answers. “If it’s a designer drug that none of the major agencies possess record of, how is it that it made its way into the person that Stark supposedly killed?”

“I am an oracle of actual fact, not precognizance.” Ianto shrugged. “I’ve no clue, mate.” 

“You are no help,” Phil stated, deploying a smile to bely any insult. 

“Neither is your former organization by not running basic labs. Look, I don’t … Okay, a starting point might be with her prior employer.”

“Previous drug record?” Phil started a new page in his notebook, realizing the time was obscene for both of them, but this was the best information they’d found yet. 

“No. But she did work for a place called BioTech. If there’s going to be a place that’s creating designer compounds, I’d consider a company with a name like that as a lead.” 

Phil wrote the name once, then tapped his pen and wrote it again as he tried to recall why the name sounded so familiar. He couldn’t remember any S.H.I.E.L.D. missions involving the company; none of the contractors were named that either. His focus caught even Ianto’s attention, but Phil ignored the questions for a moment as he wrote the name again. He had written it before, knew how to spell it, it was familiar - 

\- No, he had typed it. Typed it into Outlook in an appointment schedule for the next week, a follow up to a meeting that had appeared on his boss’ schedule in December. 

Fuck. His pen nearly flipped from his hand when he realized how he knew that name. 

“Well, shit. This complicates things.” 

***

The clock struck seven when Phil arrived; the Sales floor still dark but he could clear the click-clatter of a computer keyboard from at least one other starting the day at a fairly early hour. Armed with a tall cup of coffee brewed from beans Ianto had recommended at one point - and if Phil were to be completely honest, the man did know his coffee - Phil started digging through the company files on BioTech, International. It didn’t take long; about as much existed on _GeneScape’s_ servers as on the Biotech corporate profile website. BioTech was a privately held corporation out of Omaha, which had surprised Phil initially, but further research tied the company loosely to the University of Nebraska Med Center. Loosely in the sense of a few University donors were on the board of the firm, but that was not unusual in the state. 

He skimmed the communications file on their sales management software which held all the contact points, phone numbers and addresses, corporate hierarchy as well as the meetings that had taken place. Initially, the lead had come from a proposal sent with a letter of intent, Ethan assigned it to Amber, but then Ethan eventually took over the account once it was ascertained that the pipeline potential merited involving the Vice President of Sales. From what Phil could tell, Amber was still involved in some of the basic communications and would still earn commission on the final sale. All pointed to a typical cycle, the numbers were just much larger than most accounts, on the multi-million dollar level. 

Nothing out of the ordinary. And perhaps that was all this was. Didn’t stop Phil’s blood from racing, however, finally far more interested in his job at _Genescape_ than before. 

Not even when he’d plotted corporate re-management of the Sales crew and succeeded.

Their presentations had never looked so organized nor the office so efficient. 

Phil heard his boss come in shortly after eight, and Phil had a few of the standard Monday meetings reports ready. Paper form, of course, because Phil seemed to attract bosses with penchants for paper copy like Rogers attracted bullies of all forms and sizes. With a sharp rap on the cubicle wall dividing Phil’s area from Ethan’s, he presented the reports as well as a few contracts and purchase orders that required his boss’ signature, neatly pinpointed with sticky arrows where Ethan needed to sign. Phil was nothing if not helpful when attempting to appropriate office supplies. His boss looked up from his computer for all appearances slightly disgruntled, which Phil knew was more ruse on a Monday morning than actual work. Trending data indicated it’d take half the morning to clear out Ethan’s inbox from the weekend, much less accomplish anything remotely business-serious. “Reports for your one o’clock with Client Services, expense report for Accounting that needs your signature, and you have two interviews with potential new hires at two and three-thirty.”

“My weekend was great, Phil! Thanks for asking.” Ethan said in his booming voice that would carry across the state, much less the office. He grinned as he leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head so that Phil got the full assault to his senses with the pink-striped button down and tie. Phil had no doubt that it had come straight off the runway from some New York men’s fashion show that Ethan’s brother had attended for his magazine editor gig. It should have stayed there. “And how was yours?” 

“Mine was great as well,” Phil stated dryly, forgetting in his focus that his boss preferred pleasantries and acknowledged Ethan’s victorious moment with a slight nod of his head. Ethan would tease him for days now, something that Phil did not look forward to in the least, with over the top gestures and grand pauses until Phil played along. It was Ethan’s way of getting Phil to join in the culture at _GeneScape_ , and it seemed to entertain his boss far more than it ought. Like he enjoyed making Phil feel uncomfortable. 

Wouldn’t work, no matter how hard Ethan tried - Phil had spent five weeks in a rebel prison in the Bolivian jungle being tortured for information. That had been uncomfortable. 

Still, it annoyed him that he’d forgotten the daily routine. “Did you have a pleasant time with your family at the Spring Game? It was a beautiful day for it.” 

“Thea ran off after a shiny balloon and Harrison got sick all over the car on the way home.” Phil grimaced along with Ethan at the thought. Ethan’s kids were spitting images of their father - loud, attention demanding, and behaved like children which was appropriate in a child but not a grown adult. However, Phil did not wish cleaning up a car after a sick kid on anyone. “But the team looks good this year, might actually have a chance in the Big Ten without embarrassing ourselves.” 

Phil nodded like he followed the Husker football team avidly, however his mind still lingered on the discoveries of the weekend. “I’ve heard, so long as we stay injury-free,” Phil added, knowing this was true for any athletic event. 

“You obviously did not come over here to talk football,” Ethan set the reports on his desk, still smiling his toothy smile that sold whitening toothpaste by the gallon without contract or royalties. Phil watched him tilt forward in his chair, elbows coming to rest on the desk while he fiddled with his motivational day calendar to clear the weekend. “What can I do for you this morning?” 

Relieved, Phil accepted the shift in conversation with ease. “I’ve started reviewing the data we’ve collected on the companies who have submitted formal inquiries to our firm. I’m looking for trends or models for businesses that eventually sign with us versus the companies who decline, in part to find successful sales practices which we may be able to leverage and also to potentially target viable companies with advertisements and site visits.” Hearing the pitch, Ethan sat up even straighter and Phil realized that it actually was a good analysis that more than likely would result in at least three weeks of additional work collating the information and sifting through it. Phil shrugged off the extra work load as it was nothing he hadn’t done at S.H.I.E.L.D. save for access to far greater resources and a team of dedicated analysts, and continued on. “There are a few company profiles lacking some of the corporate history I’d been including in the research.”

“Anything you need,” Ethan waived a hand, the project already approved with far less red tape than Phil was used to. “Just give me a notice on expensing access to any outside databases or if you need to set up interviews. There are a few contacts I have that we have good enough relationships with they’ll provide some feedback for the project.” 

Phil quickly amended his inner calendar to about seven weeks of work. “I actually wondered if I could pick your brain about BioTech. You’ve been in the most contact with them, and they’re setting the bar high as far as contracts are concerned.”

Ethan studied Phil with a look not unlike Fury, tapping his pen on his chin before abruptly standing. “Walk with me. I am in need of some breakfast. Nicole was still asleep when I left after being up half the night with Harrison.” 

A blink of surprise occurred before Phil could temper the reaction, swiftly followed by the cynical question of a man who could not make his own breakfast unless his wife provided it. Agent Romanoff would have murdered Ethan before the following breakfast had such assumptions been made. 

Then again, the idea of Romanoff and Ethan being married, hell just the visual alone was worth the question. 

Phil walked beside Ethan as they ventured to the local coffee shop and bagel place just up the street from their offices. He took care as he always did when passing the ATMS along the way to idly turn to look at traffic, averting his gaze from all the hidden cameras he’d scoped ages ago. Ethan paid no mind, rattling off a play from the Spring Game in great detail, hands gesturing in demonstration of a forty-yard pass from the quarterback who, according to Ethan, finally had his head in the game over the prior season. Phil assumed there was truth in everything, however his curiosity was clearly taking favor over interest in the Husker football scrimmage, and he would be able to recite the entire conversation only due to training his mind to capture conversation while thinking something else. 

Helped him through most of his conversations with Stark, actually.

Ethan placed his order, then gestured for Phil to do the same. Not being one to argue when a breakfast was on someone else’s dime, Phil requested the house roasted brew of the day and a jalapeno-cheddar bagel. He’d stopped by the place enough times to know the coffee would not be scalded and tasting of spoiled fish; his usual complaint against some of the large coffee chains. It was a favorite in the downtown Lincoln area, and while he preferred brewing his own coffee according to the level of dark sludge he generally drank, he did not pass up a freshly roasted bean. Then they carried their breakfast (second breakfast, in Phil’s case) and coffee to a booth in the back.

“You know, my dad did the same thing.” 

Phil glanced down at his bagel, split in half by the cashier, to which he was adding a healthy layer of cream cheese. Not sure what Ethan meant, Phil continued what he was doing. “Spread cream cheese on a bagel?”

Ethan’s smirk was quick and humorless, more an acknowledgment that Phil had spoken rather than amusement by what was said. “No. He’d sit with his back to the wall, view of all the exits.”

Phil never stopped the knife smearing the cheese, but he’d be lying if the movement didn’t slow, almost to a pause while he processed what Ethan said. It wasn’t that the words struck fear, it was more cold calculation of his next steps up to and including taking out the other customers and the cashier who’d split his bagel if she was participating in conjunction with any threat to his well-being. “Military? Or police?” Phil casually asked, offering his blandest of expressions, the ones reserved for dining with despots and mob bosses. He hadn’t thought to run an investigation into the history of the employees at _GeneScape_ ; the possibility that he’d neglected to identify career military families who might have met him during his Army days churning his stomach even as he took a bite of his bagel.

“Neither.” At Phil’s raised eyebrow offering the silent question, Ethan instead took a sip of his coffee and extended the moment even longer while he chewed a mouthful of the ham-egg-avocado bagel monstrosity he called breakfast. “Grifter.” 

That wasn’t the answer Phil had been expecting - 

“Ran with a crew in Omaha back in the day that worked the Midwest, retired once mom was pregnant with me.” 

\- At all. 

Huh. 

“Went legit and started working for a New York insurance company as an art claims investigator, but still taught us kids everything he knew.” Ethan took a moment to wipe his mouth with a napkin and settled in, breakfast pushed aside for the time being. Phil was very aware of the focus again, but this time he understood it with far more clarity than before. The look also made him question how he had ever missed the tells. He had been a field agent for an elite international government force. How the hell had he missed it? “Which is why I knew the day I interviewed you, you were not who you claimed to be. Good cover, just not good enough to fool someone with con-man in their blood.” 

It appeared that Phil had drastically underestimated his coworkers, or had performed atrociously poor in the early days post-battle, new Phil. The thought was as unpleasant as the turn of the conversation, so he set his bagel on the plate, very aware of the position of his knife and hot coffee, even if the knife was plastic and the coffee no longer scalding. 

He’d made do with less on far more dire circumstances. 

“Don’t worry about it, kid.” Phil raised his brow again at the word used almost as an endearment. He knew Ethan to be in his forties - the Windhover link in his mind supplied that Ethan was human and the year of birth but no threat levels or recorded crimes - and for all appearances, Phil looked a similar age. “You were lying, but I meant what I said about not caring about your past and you looked like you needed a hand at the time. Everyone deserves a second chance, even if their resume reads like a tv show. Heh. Lawyers.” 

The continued amusement Ethan took from Phil’s resume perturbed Phil more than a little, given he had spent time crafting the backstop for that identity. 

“So.” Ethan picked up his crumbling bagel as the dense bread not able to withstand the man-handling it had taken over the course of their breakfast. He gestured with it, scowling briefly at the lump of egg that fell to his plate. “Now that you know that I know that you are burying some history I would hazard to guess is either military or hit man,” and at that Ethan cocked his head, looking at Phil again before glancing down at what Phil had assumed was a casual lay of his hands in relation to his dining utensils, adding, “or both. Explain to me what’s got your feathers in a ruffle over BioTech.” 

Phil Coulson-cum-Johnson, professional of intrigue who had stared down evil men around the globe, gone up against Nick Fury and won and hadn’t batted an eye when staring down a gun barrel, nearly swallowed his drink of coffee wrong on the last bit.

***

Phil sat on the floor of the den with little concern for appearances in his own home, knees to his chin and head resting against the wall, staring at the opposite wall decorated in pins, strings, note cards and photos. The day had been exhausting, the talk with his boss and the start of the accursed project he’d innocently pitched as a cover for the information he actually sought. Turned out he hadn’t been the only one to voice questions over BioTech and their actual existence, the first being Amber. She had come to Ethan with her concerns, and Ethan had removed her from the account despite her protests to maintain status quo. He’d done it to protect her, a noble gesture, sure, and borderline misogynistic. But Ethan had taken over the account and the meetings, under the guise of a more senior lead managing the negotiations, but also to get a read on the BioTech team.

What Ethan had to say wasn’t all that reassuring to Phil. 

BioTech was covering something; Ethan was certain it had to be corporate espionage. Far too much attention paid to the hows and not the results or intent, a photo being snapped when taken through the labs protected by strict HIPAA guidelines and their own internal security restrictions regarding phone and camera use, and an attempt by someone to get hired by _GeneScape_ that was actually determined to be a BioTech plant all added up to a lot of _GeneScape_ leadership concern. Ethan was still teasing with the potential of a contract to keep BioTech engaged until _GeneScape’s_ lawyers had collected their case to present to the FBI.

He'd entertained the notion, just briefly, that Ethan worked for BioTech as well, but he'd discarded it just as quickly given the impassioned defense of _GeneScape_ and anger at those who would threaten the company. 

In exchange for the information, especially regarding the FBI, Phil admitted to Ethan that he had been in the Army, hence the hand-to-hand training exhibited at the Holiday Party. He’d explained that his military career was long behind him and he was laying low for personal reasons based on the firm he had worked for after the military - not a lie, which Phil wished to avoid with Ethan as the man had been more than understanding. If the FBI were contacted and started any kind of investigation, he would appreciate the heads up so he could walk away. 

Ethan had agreed with a handshake, then commented slyly that while his dad had retired, his uncle still had connections. 

Shit, strike the whole thought about Ethan being akin to a used car salesman. The man could run a crew if he wanted. Hell, he’d probably do an amazing job at S.H.I.E.L.D.

If Phil wasn’t dead to S.H.I.E.L.D., he’d consider recruiting.

With a frustrated sigh, Phil stood and walked across the room to poke at the pins and the strings emanating from Stark’s photo. 

The information made little sense as to how or why BioTech would actually be involved in the Stark investigation, and seemed completely unrelated to Roger’s recall to Afghanistan or Banner’s disappearance. And Ianto had been unable to find anything in the S.H.I.E.L.D. databases supporting why there was an arrest warrant out for Hawkeye and Black Widow, which they assumed meant paper-only, and usually reserved for the most classified of reasons. He could almost hear Fury’s voice in his head, expletive followed by expletive-laden expletive to figure shit out. 

He knew the answer existed, and it currently dangled just out of reach. Phil had been in the business a long time, and was well aware that sometimes things like this took time to uncover. 

But it was progress. 

He’d take progress over the alternative.

***

Of course, his life never worked out as he planned, even with the best of intentions.

Plans failed even with contingency plans A through Z, progress became setbacks and for a brief, fleeting moment, Phil questioned his sanity. If he wasn’t fairly certain Loki currently resided in Asgard under the watchful eye of Odin, Phil would have guessed the Trickster god was fucking with his life again when he walked into the conference room the following Monday. 

The plan had been to join Ethan and two BioTech reps on the premise of taking notes for Ethan during the meeting. He’d monitor the situation, and provide feedback to Ethan. Then he’d use the information in his own search with Ianto of which Ethan was still unaware. He and Ianto had even talked breaking into the offices in Omaha on an intel gathering mission. 

That was the plan. 

It had been a good plan. 

When he shook hands with Natasha Romanoff and introduced himself as Phil Johnson, he assumed from her veiled surprise that her plans had just been trashed as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wanting to know what Nebraska actually *looks* like, have a click on this video that was just put out by an aerial promotional group. It's absolutely fantastic and makes Nebraska cool by having intense music pairing up with it. ;) No, really. I'm serious! Sorta. I wasn't kidding about Nebraska being flat. Just take a view. At about the 2:00 mark, you see shots of Lincoln, and the capital aka "the Penis of the Plains" (and for reference, all those shots are downtown - including the stadium - which is where the fictional GeneScape resides). 2:30 you get Omaha. 
> 
> [Nebraska Highlights - Youtube](http://youtu.be/fD_iSqmypfg)
> 
> And yes, the appropriate verb for floating down a river in a giant tank is called 'tanking.'


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the day lateness. 
> 
> Needed to sit on this an extra night, then decided to cut the chapter in half because it had grown ridiculously long.
> 
> Because well, this scene has been in my head since day 1 and it just begs 20k words or something.

The meeting with Ethan, Natasha and the other BioTech rep, Michael Easton went remarkably well, given the circumstances. Ethan and Michael discussed some of the legalese of the contracts both sides were drawing up, Phil took a copious amount of notes as though _GeneScape_ wasn’t building a case against BioTech, and Natasha didn’t kill him.

All in all, Phil considered it a victory.

He slipped a note into Natasha’s information packet, knowing full-well the spy would find it. The piece of paper wasn’t much, just an address and a time.

Shit.

Phil considered his options quickly during the meeting, and discarded most. He could run, following the meeting. Run and never look back, fall off the grid much as Ianto had done. Perhaps even consider something different, a more significant change than just growing a beard and donning glasses. He existed because he believed he existed; his likeness developed from growing up with two parents which his visage mimicked because kids were supposed to look like their parents, not because there were actual genetics tying him to his parents. He bled because he _should_ bleed, he ate and drank because that’s what he ultimately believed he needed to do and he died as human because he had spent his entire childhood thinking he was none other than human. The ultimate cover - blending in and becoming one with the race they protected.

Theoretically, based on the little information he and Ianto knew, they believed a complete change possible.

Neither had tried it, however.

The concept terrified them both. Phil knew the potential existed - hell, he’d used a variation of the idea for decades. Nothing drastic, either just aging his appearance as expected or rewinding a bit upon a death, but always within the same framework of _Phil_.

To be someone else, to believe so utterly in that sense of self his outward appearance would reflect his core perception and not fall back on the original …

The greater question then became if their idea of self changed, would they then, in fact, cease to be?

That ultimate question eliminated a dozen options in the handling of the situation in which he now found himself. He wouldn’t run. If Natasha knew he lived, or if S.H.I.E.L.D. found out, there would be few places in the world he could hide. So if the confrontation happened, Phil had two options: a public setting or private. Knowing Natasha as he did, Phil knew a public setting would be the worst of the two options. Any conversation they would have would not be fit for the general population, especially given the potential for Natasha seeking blood for betraying her. Also, she would more than likely access his personnel records with Human Resources and get his private address anyway.

Lastly, if Natasha was running from S.H.I.E.L.D. for an outstanding warrant, there was the strong chance Barton would be with her as he was probably running for the same reason.

Christ, the day could not get any worse.

So it was his house. The family home. His one remaining safe house which existed solely because of its impossible nature.

Phil shook off the worry following the meeting, knowing he had until six that evening to change his mind and disappear. He might even be able to pack a few things before leaving, though more than likely Natasha would be there early to case the place so his time frame on that was limited. A quick wrap-up with Ethan followed by a trip to the break room to pick up some purely abysmal coffee and Phil returned to his desk only to stare at his monitor where the cursor prompted for his lock code.

On a scale of one and FUBAR’d, Phil figured this might surpass Andijan ‘05 which set new S.H.I.E.L.D. definitions of FUBAR.

***

When Phil drove up to the house, he noticed a white sedan already parked in the drive and a light in the kitchen glared through the windows. His mind cheerfully suggested running - again - and he ignored it. Again. Running certainly would make the situation easier, however Phil was never one to run. He parked next to the sedan in the wide gravel drive, knowing better than to block the exit. If not for the peace of mind of a spy, then for the likelihood that a hasty exit would come at the expense of his car. And while it was no Lola, he’d rather not damage the 1970 Oldsmobile 440 he’d only just got operational.

He grabbed the two grocery sacks from the passenger seat and the six pack of beer, using the opportunity to scan the trees for any sign of a covert op team. With an arrest warrant out for Natasha, Phil assumed S.H.I.E.L.D. would not be contacted, however that was not a chance he wanted to risk. He had a weapons cache he could access in the second barn if necessary, a stash he’d built after collecting items on a weekend trip to Lawrence, Kansas. Otherwise, Phil had scattered pieces throughout the home, though he had to consider most - if not all - compromised.

Fuck, Natasha Romanoff was in his childhood home. Phil’s entire _life_ was compromised.

With no visible threats in the area which would have created a mad, calculated dash to the barn, Phil unlocked the side door of the house with a trepidation he refused to permit on his face. He maintained the surface calm up the short five steps through the mud room and into the kitchen, not even flinching when he saw the figure anything-but-casually seated at the kitchen table.

Strike whatever thoughts he previously held about Natasha in his childhood home.

No, the Black Widow sat in his kitchen, stone-faced and lethal threat.

 _That_ shook him more than anything.

He supposed he should have expected it; foolish of him to think otherwise. Who he saw was not the woman he had first met in Moscow after Barton went off grid and returned with the assassin. Even then, it had been Natasha, Natasha who respected him and whose trust he had earned. Always. Not that Phil didn’t see the Black Widow in action; Hawkeye and Widow were his assets and had been for years. But never had the Widow held him as a target.

Phil _should_ have expected it, and most of all, he deserved it.

His steps never faltered, however, his feet carrying him to the kitchen counter no matter how much his finely tuned hindbrain recognized the threat and demanded he fight or flee. The grocery bags gave a plastic crinkle once they were deposited on the counter, the beer softly thudding an echoed beat. He grabbed the eggs from the bag, purposefully ignoring the assassin in the room in what he hoped was indifference or else simply stupidity in removing his eyes from the threat. Not that he really did, his eyes drifting to the gun displayed on the table, unequivocally stating the Widow’s purpose.

Interrogation, then, not immediate harm.

Though, violence was a viable alternative.

Accepting her position, Phil focused on putting the eggs in the refrigerator, listening for any other atypical sounds within the house hinting the presence of anyone else but heard nothing. No Barton. His day was improving. He noticed the blade he kept hidden in the butter drawer was missing, and he suspected the gun he kept in the bowl of pistachios had mysteriously vanished as well.

Well, shit.

Eggs carefully housed on the nearly bare shelf with the spiced mustard and lettuce greens in the red and wilted stage, Phil returned to the kitchen counter where he removed the bottle of Stolichnaya Red he’d picked up at The Third Wheel. He fished two old-fashioned glasses from his cabinets, rinsing them first under a stream of water then dropping a couple drops of Dawn detergent in each. Not that there weren’t poisons which could sit on the glass despite the washing, but Phil was at least counting on the Black Widow not to seek revenge through poison. Would be far too little satisfaction and hardly any pain. If he died he’d merely reappear near where the old tree once stood, anyway.

But the glass washing was not solely for him, and the gaze he swore he could feel pressing on his shoulders monitored every movement.

A quick scrub and he rinsed each glass; carefully drying each before carrying them to the table. Phil resisted the urge to look up, cracking the seal on the bottle of vodka instead and pouring an ounce into one of the glasses.

Which he promptly drank. Because this kind of an evening required at least a shot of vodka.

He left the remaining glass and the bottle on the table, choosing instead to return to the kitchen counter edge where he leaned just enough to imply ease but left his action options open. A twist of the cap on a bottle of Guinness let the distinct _hiss_ of the whirly-gig at the bottom to fill the room, but once it stopped the tense silence resumed. Phil snapped the bottle cap at the trashcan, but the force was too much for the empty bin. It simply ricocheted off the interior and shot back to the floor where it awkwardly clinked and rolled a bit before coming to a rest at the Widow’s foot.

Not his finest moment.

He had better aim and skills than that. And when he no longer feared immediate death through a number of creative and painful means, he may work on it.

“I saw your body.”

With a slight nod of assent, Phil took a drink, letting the accusation hang in the air. He’d planned a hundred conversation paths while he finished his work day, dozens of questions and potential answers to explain or hide or just conceal. Variations, all of them, some allowing him to maintain secrecy and others akin to blurting out the answers.

He couldn’t recall a single one.

All his planning, all his experience vanished like wisps of smoke in a Nebraska wind, leaving him silent and dumb in front of one of the few people he could honestly say he trusted with his life. And trust he had on numerous occasions. Staring at his beer bottle, Phil picked at the plastic label and wondered if this was how Ianto had felt, facing his team and his partner, ultimately burying all the truths under vague explanations and non-answers. It had worked, _but Ianto hadn’t died_ , Phil’s mind supplied in either excuse or defense. At this point, both were completely reasonable and valid.

“You said I could trust you.”

“No,” Phil shook his head, finally focusing on Widow. He could read absolutely nothing from her presentation. No hint, no purpose, hands clasped beneath the table’s edge and her back ramrod straight, every bit the femme fatale in her business attire from earlier in the day. She had been trained for this, Phil understood on some level, but the image contrasted so much from his interactions with her in the past that it left him feeling hapless in his own spy-world. “I remember stating I hoped to one day earn your trust.”

A tilt of her head was all he earned from the correction, a giant leap in the right direction as far as Phil was concerned. “Did you remember to let the dog out?”

“Yes, just before I left.” Phil rattled off the call and response code answer - assuring her he was not being held against his will - another tick in whatever interrogator’s questionnaire Widow followed. “S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t know about this place,” he followed up, trying to anticipate another question, or at least attempt to make her feel more comfortable at the location. “No listening or recording devices present.”

All he got for the effort was a blank stare. Not even a single blink to help him out.

Phil supposed he deserved that, too.

Black Widow stood, only to grab the bottle of vodka and glass and return to her chair. “Did Fury send you here?” she asked with a deceptively casual tone as she poured herself a drink. Poured, but never drank, the glass setting right next to the gun with the barrel still aimed at Phil. A deliberate action; one even the densest of Junior Agents could interpret correctly.

Do not lie.

Even if Phil wasn’t already wary enough to have plotted the number of ways he could defend himself within his own kitchen against the Black Widow, he certainly would be now. Something was off, but it wasn’t Widow. “No,” Phil replied, confident enough with his answer to look her squarely in the eyes, the beer bottle paused halfway to his mouth. “Fury does not know.” About him. About Nebraska. About the WIndhover. About anything. But Phil made no additional response and the Widow didn’t ask for him to elaborate. Satisfied, he took a drink of his beer because if she was going to kill him and he’d have to run again, he was going to enjoy the damned beer.

“We held a funeral for you.” The Widow’s jaw tightened briefly, just a slight flex, a passing shadow which belied far more than the assassin would ever show in an interrogation.

And at that moment, Phil understood with a clarity punching like a spear through his chest.

“Natasha,” Phil finally spoke, breaking the silence with far more familiarity than he ever took at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. On mission, when it was the three of them in a dive motel eating whatever passed as edible while they reviewed dossiers and listened to audio, that was something different. Something … else. Something friends. Or at least what passed as such in the world in which they lived. Or maybe she played him to get a reaction. Fuck if he knew for certain. But he at least had hope that maybe this wouldn’t end in pain and bloodshed. “I couldn’t-”

“Couldn’t what?”

The voice sounded as calm and collect as Phil had ever heard it. His stomach mainlined to his feet in response, leaving his brain swimming in fuzzy clouds for all it was trying to react and _think_. Phil jerked his head away from Natasha - the Black Widow - whatever face he was seeing to look straight into the barrel of a gun. He raised his hands, beer in one, in what he hoped was a placating gesture. “Barton-”

“Stop.” Clint stood framed in the doorway, gun drawn and oh-so-steadily pointed at Phil. Barton looked furious in ways only Barton could look, face impassive but for the brow drawn in three creases, lips pressed in a line so thin the edges turned white. Rings shaded his eyes, sagging and dark like sleep only visited briefly, when it did show. He looked both exhausted and incensed and Phil knew that was a terrible combination.

And damn if some part of Phil still didn’t find it attractive. If Phil wasn’t certain about his future and where his new life would take him before, all hope of ever running again vanished at the sight of Clint in his home. In his childhood home. In - Fuck. Goddammit. Things weren’t supposed to happen like this. Ever.

No matter how he secretly wished and dreamed it would.

“Explain,” Clint ordered, aim never wavering.

For a fleeting moment, Phil felt almost disappointed that he wasn’t worth an arrow, just a plain old bullet like the masses. It was a flash, though, as Phil caught motion in his periphery which distracted him from the rather morbid thought. Blurred color spun amidst neutrals, paper scattering across the kitchen table with the muffled tick of cards.

No, not just paper.

Photos.

Black and white photos.

And mixed in between, splashes of color.

The USO had been rather heavy in their marketing campaign, even in time of war, and Phil had quite the original collection.

He leaned back against the counter’s edge again, thumb and finger pinching the steadily growing headache and he tried to think. Thinking had never been one of those difficult things, not for Phil. But now, all he could think was that things had been so much easier to explain when _those_ hadn’t been factored in and Barton hadn’t been involved. “Those were in a safe.” Locked away in a hermetically sealed, fireproof safe; hidden in the attic with various other papers and documents. That was where they were supposed to be. Not spread about so Natasha could flip through what Clint had seen, twisting photos for better angles, squinting at the scrawled, faded handwriting on the backs.

Clint snapped back, “you’re supposed to be dead.”

“This is my house!” Phil countered, finally giving in to the bit of fury that ate around the edges of his control. Dead or not, these were … it was his history. His past. Thrown and scattered about like they weren’t nearly a century old, some of them. Photos of him as a child, photos of his parents on their wedding, of the old Syracuse town which remarkably still looked similar to today. He had some locked away in a couple of the local banks safety deposit boxes held in the estate’s name, just to preserve some of that history, just in case. There weren’t many from that time, but they were still _his_.

Both Clint and Natasha now stood, gun in Natasha’s hand so he stared down two barrels instead of just the one.

“Super soldier serum?” Natasha directed her question at Clint.

“Pretty sure if Cap was stabbed through the chest like Phil he’d die, Tasha.”

“Zombie?”

“I call dibs on removing his head.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Phil mumbled, ignored the two of them and their threat-theories and paced the kitchen, hand scratching at his beard just to soothe his nerves. It had been a terrible idea. Not just coming back to the house after running into Natasha at _GeneScape_. No, the entire thing. Staying here. Taking up residence in the old house. It was too comfortable, too close, too open to the chance of discovery. All of it. All the photos, the mementos, all the little things he’d kept as a kid before disappearing the first time. He should have done as Ianto said, removed himself from the continent, joined a Buddhist monastery for a couple decades before even considering returning to the States.

But it had worked before.

Disappearing.

Reinventing himself as someone new, somewhere else.

But he’d never been so involved, before.

Hell, he’d barely even made friends.

The doorbell’s chime startled him from his thoughts, unexpected and so utterly _normal_ he nearly laughed. He pointed at the two who had quit bickering and were just staring at him over their guns. “Wait a minute here, okay? I’ll try to explain, just … give me a minute.”

The doorbell chimed again, partnered with a “Phil?” he could hear even through the solid oak door. Trusting Clint and Natasha at least not to shoot him in the back, Phil crossed the living room area to the front hallway, twisting the deadbolt to open the door to the County Sheriff, Colm Greeley. Phil had seen the man a couple times at the Third Wheel, off duty of course. More rotund than tall and sporting a military-grade buzz cut, Colm was a decent sort. Perhaps not cut out to be running after suspects day after day, but here, in rural Nebraska? He got on well with the neighbors and kept the kids from vandalizing the town’s entrance sign. Which was about all the action seen in these parts. “Good evening, Sheriff.”

“Hey, Phil.” Colm braced his hands on his hips. “Sorry to bother you, but got a call from Bethany.” The other man gestured towards the road with his head, then rolled his eyes in a ‘what can you do?’ act. “Says she saw a car she didn’t recognize in your drive and the lights on, wanted me to check it out. Everything okay?”

Surprised yet not, Phil arched a brow, casting a look up the road and hoping the Sheriff wouldn’t be offended for not being invited in. “She lives three miles up the road.”

“Said she was watching her birds-”

“She’s ninety-two.”

“-With binoculars.” Colm shrugged then laughed. “Look, what am I going to do with a ninety-two year old lady with an arrest record for driving with an expired license? I’ll talk with her grandkids again, see if they’ll finally take the keys to that beast of a car. Figured I’d drop by anyway for my piece of mind.”

“It’s ok,” Phil said as he leaned against the door frame, realizing he still held the beer he’d started what felt like hours ago but really could not have been that long. All the same, made for a good, casual excuse. He gestured to the car just visible off the front porch with the bottle. “Couple of old friends visiting, arrived before I got off work and let themselves in.” All completely true, he just left out the guns portion of the visit and the breaking and entering. “Thanks for checking in, though.”

“Course. Coming to the Spring Festival this weekend? You could bring your friends if they’re still in town.”

Phil had to pause a moment to even remember what the man was talking about, but vaguely remembered seeing neon paper signs taped to the doors of the Third Wheel and the grocery store earlier. Small towns in the area hosted a ridiculous number of festivals from Arbor Day to Czech Festival to Kool-Aid Days to Nebraskaland Days. Just an excuse to gather, drink and enjoy the outdoors, Phil always figured. Except for the Kool-Aid Days; Phil was fairly certain no alcohol was involved in Kool-Aid Days. That Syracuse threw a party of their own didn’t surprise him, the idea of Clint and Natasha intermingling with the locals, however, amused him far more than it ought. “It’s on the calendar, depends how work shapes up.”

“You met O’Neill’s boy yet? Jonathan? He just started working at _GeneScape_ a month back.”

“Phil?” Clint shouted from the kitchen, and Phil turned to see Clint standing just a step inside the living room, holding up a roast pan which Phil knew was empty unless it was filled with eggs, a frozen dinner, spiced mustard and wilted lettuce. “Was this supposed to go in before or after the oven heated? Also, is four-fifty too hot?”

As interruptions went, Phil would take it, even if it meant returning to the room with the guns and the threats instead of talking with the nice County Sheriff. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d better make sure they don’t burn my place down,” Phil said with one of those smiles Amber always pointed out as fake.

"I'll keep the volunteer fire crew on standby, just in case." With a goodnight and an amiable wave, Colm walked away, alive and unaware of the upcoming confrontation to be held between two world-class assassins and their ex-handler in Phil’s kitchen.

Phil's day? 

Definitely worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done? Why no, they are not done! More to come next week. Bring your vodka shots and ammo! 
> 
> Also, if you thought you heard the last of Bethany - well, you are totally wrong. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Yup. I really did that. Shut it, the whole concept was bred from a 'take back the plot' idea. Sorta like if you were to take Twilight and write a fic that had them actually be vampires. ;) 
> 
> 2\. Yup. I really did that, too. It starts out in Nebraska because Nebraska is just way too misunderstood. Why no, my home state is not Nebraska? Why do you ask? *shifty-eyes*
> 
> 3\. Ok, so my home state really is Nebraska. But everyone writes about getting sent to shit-missions there or encountering hicks, and while that is not to say those can't happen or don't exist, not all of Nebraska is bad. So I'm totally taking back the plot on Nebraska! Or it's a public outreach. Or something.
> 
> 4\. Wish us luck in the midwest, btw. And luck to any reader out there in the midwest/great plains area. We've been hammered hard by severe weather lately. It's good for drought-killing purposes. It's bad for the whole 'tornado/straight-line-winds/flooding' thing.


End file.
